"Let me consider," she said, as she hovered on the threshold of the Grosvenor Gallery, "now I shall find myself amongst the grandest works of Mister JONES. I am never tired of that pale face with the pointed chin--no more is Mister JONES. This frequently-reproduced portrait of a lady is most interesting. No doubt it is a study of a chronic case of dyspepsia that must have lasted for twenty years. Then I shall see the choicest works of MORE and MILLAIS, and WATTS, and oh, joy! of Sir COUTTS-LINDSAY! This is indeed the very spot for a resting-place." So the Spirit of Art glided up the staircase and into the Grosvenor Gallery. For a moment she was puzzled. There was no dyspeptic lady--"no greenery" and very little "yallery." Then she shivered, for on all sides she found immense pictures of battles and executions ghastly beyond description. "Why, what are these?" she gasped. "What are these?" "Catalogue, Miss?" replied a civil attendant. "Thank you, Miss,--sixpence." And then the Spirit of Art read that such and such a picture represented a dreadful defeat, that a pestilent hospital, yonder one a scene of torture. She found representations of war treated in the most prosaic and unbeautiful form. She was horrified and fainted! Then the vision, before her became more and more terrible and the entire contents of the Catalogue was unfolded before her. Dying soldiers defying vultures, mutilated Russians lying in an open grave, old men being blown from the guns! Wounds, and fire, and blood! *** When she came to herself she hurried away. She thought it out. "I must gradually accustom myself to less horrible things," she whispered. "I will begin at once. If I were not to do this by degrees, I should go mad!" She called a hansom. "Where to, Miss?" "To the Marylebone Road," cried the Spirit of Art--in these days the Spirit is a very self-assertive young person, and not at all like an unprotected female--"Baker Street Station, Marylebone Road." Then she threw away her Catalogue. "I must see something less repulsive than this--I must gradually resume my normal condition. Something less repulsive! I have it! I will begin with the figures of Madame TUSSAUD'S--in the Chamber of Horrors!" * * * * * CHAIRS TO MEND. Congregation at Oxford, having (in an empty House), for the sake of economy, turned the old Professorship of Anglo-Saxon into one of English Literature, and having, with a view to utilising its salary, entirely suppressed the chair of Poetry, it is rumoured that the Hebdomadal Council have already in contemplation a sweeping list of curtailments in the same direction. The Professorships of Arabic, Archæology, Astronomy, Botany, Celtic, Chemistry, and Chinese, will, it is said, also be rolled into one.