Attempt > Volume 1 and Select writings

THE ATTEMPT
95
Princes Street, our bright, sunny, glorious Princes Street, quite loses caste
during the month of Pebruary and the early days of March, for there is a rival attraction
just round the comer—a fashionable rendezvous, where one can chat and gossip by the
hour with chance acquaintance or friend, without braving the bleak east wind for
which our northern capital is so famed, and from which even our prince of streets is
not exempt during the spring months.
A stranger might give us residenters in Edinburgh the credit of being an art-loving,
art-criticising people, who never seem to weary of the Exhibition of Paintings, who
do homage, by the careful and earnest study of each picture, to the genius and pains¬
taking efforts of every artist, be he distinguished in his profession or but a tyro in
the study of the fine arts. We acknowledge, however, in all humility, that even when
conversant with every painting, we naturally follow the crowd that day after day
wends its way to the National Gallery, for the force of habit of doing as others do is
strong in trifles as in more important matters.
We can easily distinguish the select few who visit the Exhibition for its legitimate
object—that of admiring the paintings with which its walls are hung. They are
recognised by the almost desperate looks they wear, as they endeavour to force a way
through the languid crowd of promenaders, who could, to quote themselves, “ find
every picture blindfold,” and therefore cannot be expected to understand how the
poor stranger is eagerly desirous of “ doing ” the rooms before train time. Our rustic
critic hurries on, catalogue in hand, impeded every moment, chafing inwardly at the
delay, and wondering secretly how such a crowd of reasonable beings can have patience
to saunter away so much precious time, when it is evident they are not there to admire
those pictures of which he is so anxious to catch a glimpse. Indignantly he pushes
past an exquisite, who is gracefully positioned in front of one of the chefs dtoeuvre,
whose every feature seems to petition for its tribute of merited admiration, while the
whole expression of the face declares, “ I am worthy of scrutinising notice, as a correct
embodied representation of Adonis himself.” The graceful attitude, the turned toe,
the decidedly Paris cut of the coat, are thoroughly wasted on our farmer friend, whose
feeling of irritation soon, however, gives place to the more wholesome one of gratitude,
as he pictures to himself the stalwart figure of his own son, proud and able to take
charge during his father’s absence, whose manners might want the polish of the town-
bred youth by his side, but in whose bright eye the glad father sees clear good sense,
practical knowledge, and Virtue herself reflected. Now he has to insinuate himself