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.

The women of this audience frequently are rather dowdy, and shapen in
very individual fashions. The men generally are elderly beings, now and
then reminiscent of the period of Horace Greeley. They are very bald, or
with untrimmed white (not grey) hair, and, sometimes, Uncle-Sam-like
whiskers. They are usually very wrinkled as to trowsers and overcoats.
Here and there among the gentlemen of this company is to be seen one who
looks strikingly like Emile Zola, or the late Mr. Pierpont Morgan
slightly gone to seed. All these charming folk make of looking at
old-fashioned pictures a very busy occupation, and also in effect a
rather mundane occupation, as though they were alertly considering the
possibility of making a selection from among a variety of serviceable
kitchen chairs.

Argumenting the throng are authentic representatives of the world of
fashion; some who appear to be students; the ever present foreigners,
including the frequently present Jap; a number of those enigmatic beings
who continually take notes at art exhibitions; and a respectable quota of
those ladies we always have with us at art exhibitions who in the
presence of pictures and it necessary to say: "Isn't that wonderful,
marvellous tone quality!" Occasionally a decidedly quaint student of Art
strolls in, past the imposing flunky (in finery a bit faded) at the door,
strolls in in the form of a lodger in Madison Square. He looks at the
pictures as if thoughtfully, but without animation.

Well, we have now covered, in an elementary way, about every important
species of art show, except one, the most human perhaps of all, that held
annually on Fifty-seventh Street. We s