, 1877.

Note.--A later version of this sonnet, under the title of 'The Grave of
Keats,' is given in the Poems, page 157.

THE GROSVENOR GALLERY, 1877

(Dublin University Magazine, July 1877.)

That 'Art is long and life is short' is a truth which every one feels, or
ought to feel; yet surely those who were in London last May, and had in
one week the opportunities of hearing Rubenstein play the Sonata
Impassionata, of seeing Wagner conduct the Spinning-Wheel Chorus from the
Flying Dutchman, and of studying art at the Grosvenor Gallery, have very
little to complain of as regards human existence and art-pleasures.

Descriptions of music are generally, perhaps, more or less failures, for
music is a matter of individual feeling, and the beauties and lessons
that one draws from hearing lovely sounds are mainly personal, and depend
to a large extent on one's own state of mind and culture. So leaving
Rubenstein and Wagner to be celebrated by Franz Huffer, or Mr. Haweis, or
any other of our picturesque writers on music, I will describe some of
the pictures now being shown in the Grosvenor Gallery.

The origin of this Gallery is as follows: About a year ago the idea
occurred to Sir Coutts Lindsay of building a public gallery, in which,
untrammelled by the difficulties or meannesses of 'Hanging Committees,'
he could exhibit to the lovers of art the works of certain great living
artists side by side: a gallery in which the student would not have to
struggle through an endless monotony of mediocre works in order to reach
what was worth looking at; one in which the people of England could have
the opportunity of judging of the merits of at least one great master of
painting, whose pictures had been kept from public exhibition by the
jealousy and ignorance of rival artists. Accordingly, last May, in New
Bond Street, the Grosvenor Gallery was opened to the public.

As far as the Gallery itself is concerned, there are only three rooms, so
there is no fear of our getting that terrible weariness of mind and eye
which comes on after the 'Forced Marches' through ordinary picture
galleries. The walls are hung with scarlet damask above a dado of dull
green and gold; there are luxurious velvet couches, beautiful flowers and
plants, tables of gilded and inlaid marbles, covered with Japanese china
and the latest 'Minton,' globes of 'rainbow glass' like large
soap-bubbles, and, in fine, everything in decoration that is lovely to