and rather in a corner, enabled me to observe, without being observed
myself, the impression made by the picture on the various visitors. It
seemed to me that if ever a work of Art caught popular attention, this
ought to do so. It was of very large size; of brilliant color, and of
agreeable subject. There are about twenty figures in it, the principal
ones being life size: that of Solomon, though in the shade, is by far
the most perfect conception of the young king in his pride of wisdom and
beauty which I know in the range of Italian art; the queen is one of the
loveliest of Veronese's female figures; all the accessories are full of
grace and imagination; and the finish of the whole so perfect that one
day I was upwards of two hours vainly trying to render, with perfect
accuracy, the curves of two leaves of the brocaded silk. The English
travelers used to walk through the room in considerable numbers; and
were invariably directed to the picture by their laquais de place, if
they missed seeing it themselves. And to this painting--in which it took
me six weeks to examine rightly two figures--I found that on an average,
the English traveler who was doing Italy conscientiously, and seeing
everything as he thought he ought, gave about half or three-quarters of
a minute; but the flying or fashionable traveler, who came to do as much
as he could in a given time, never gave more than a single glance, most
of such people turning aside instantly to a bad landscape hung on the
right, containing a vigorously painted white wall, and an opaque green
moat. What especially impressed me, however, was that none of the
ladies ever stopped to look at the dresses in the Veronese. Certainly
they were far more beautiful than any in the shops in the great square,
yet no one ever noticed them. Sometimes when any nice, sharp-looking,
bright-eyed girl came into the room, I used to watch her all the way,
thinking--"Come, at least _you'll_ see what the Queen of Sheba has got
on." But no--on she would come carelessly, with a little toss of the
head, apparently signifying "nothing in _this_ room worth looking
at--except myself," and so trip through the door, and away.

12. The fact is, we don't care for pictures: in very deed we don't. The
Academy exhibition is a thing to talk of and to amuse vacant hours;
those who are rich amongst us buy a painting or two, for mixed reasons,
sometimes to fill the corner of a passage--sometimes to help the
drawing-r