SHOP-WINDOWS.
THE love of London is a sort of little patriotism n within a patriotism. Her sons—many of them—love her dearly, but not, we think, so dearly as her daughters. The position for grass and trees, sir and sky and water, is stronger in men than in women. There was once a picture in Puna of a snow scene glittering in the sun--an old countryman was gazing at it lost in admiration and declaring that it" beat Nature 'chow." Some such words lie buried in the heart of many a Londoner, as she stands spellbound before a beautiful shop-window, or analyses her impressions after walking up Regent Street and along Oxford Street when the shops are at their gayest. She had far rather look through those broad expanses of glass than at anything the country has to show her after September and before Hay. She ought not to feel like this, we all know that she ought not ; but without being able to accuse themselves of such reprehensible and immoderate enjoyment, many women would admit that a very considerable fraction of the minor pleasures of life is derived from looking in shop-windows. Like light reading, it furnishes a pleasant distraction, and like playing golf, it necessi- tates a certain amount of outdoor exercise. Women are threatened jest now with the loss of this amusement. Obviously the luxury trades ought to be discouraged. Sensible people will be well content to- go without a pastime which at beet is little suited to the hour. All the same, it is quite permissible to dread the new dullness which will descend upon the streets, the new sobering of the cities' most innocent allurement. It is not, we think, longing for the objects displayed which makes Englishwomen such inveterate shop-gazers. They look at the windows from sheer pleasure in the sight of them. What woman can pass with indifference a Bond Street jeweller's when it is beginning to get dusk, and the electric light is turned dawn- wards on to "the stuff" The fascination of the shining stones is hypnotic. It has existed since the world began. It enthrals because it appeals to so many primitive passioes at once. The "desire of the eyes" in satisfied by the colour and the light, while the never absent sense of value sets the imagination working more surely than the sight of money. From another point of view, how pleasant to look upon is a fruit-shop. No sight so completely aymbolizes plenty. The lovely rounded shapes, so attractive and no perishable, force us to forget the oppressive ugliness of badly arranged bricks and mortar. Perhaps a display of clothes attracts more apeotatore than any other. An interest in the fashion is accountable for half of it, and the hope of millinery inspiration for at least a quarter. Splendid brocades and diaphanous muffins serve as a background to objects which are literally "models," the " self-tutors " from which every little work- girl learns to dress.
It is a curious eight to watch the windows of a toy-shop when the street is full. It is not the thought of buying for the children which stops half the passers-by. Grown-up people, working men, and old maids will stand for some minutes contemplating the games, the miniature crockery, the sham animals and open picture-books. It is difficult to account for the attraction. The joys of childhood make an indelible impression, and half unconsciously both men and women try to recapture those joys whose poignancy has stamped itaell upon the mind.
A great part, no doubt, of the pleasure of looking in shops might be described as commercial. It is agreeable to find oneself a judgt of the price and genuineness of beautiful objects which are out is one's reach. Some of the delights of the collector can be had from the street. A great many intrinsically very ugly objects owe then value to a taste as much acquired as that for postage-stamps, ant the woman who can instantly recognize and appraise them has gets much pleasure out of them as it is in them to give. Possession could add little to her joy. But while the real shop-lover, whether she is rich or poor, knows no envy, she is conscious that window-gazing is a quest. She believes that some day in a fine street in broad day- light, or in a back street in the dusk, some intensely desirable thing will be seen by her, and be found within her moans. Of what nature is her prospective purchase she does not perhaps know, but its vague radiance flashes before her mind's eye, and leads her on from shop to shop, from year to year, and in its quest she finds distraction from care, and recreation, and something to shorten the weary distance of the journey from one quarter of the town to another. If window- dressing is disallowed, spirits will go down. Nevertheless inter- ference with the liberty of display may be a very necessary war 111014811113.
After all, the aspect of the streets on Sunday in London has its attractions, though perhaps they arc of a negative sort. The eyes of the shops are closed. We have leisure to turn our own upon the outlines of the city. There is, in the mind of the present writer, no object in the world so ugly as an omnibus, and the strange thing is that, whether one wants to get into a 'bus or not, one must look at it. Few of these disfigure- ments are to be seen on Sunday_ The crowd of them would be less on a weekday if the shops offered no show, and many a charming turn of the roadway and many a picturesque corner would reveal itself. Is a tank uglier than a 'bus I The one in Trafalgar Square rather disappointed the present writer from the point of view both of ugliness and size. The Embankment trams remain without a We have sometimes wondered if it would be possible to introduce something analogous to shop-windows into picture galleries and museums. It would be a method of familiarizing the public with their contents. Would people look if the things were not for sale We wonder. Nine-tenths of those who stare in at the treasures displayed at the great shops cannot buy in them. All the same, a time might come when they could, and now and again they may see something which they can afford. Would they stop to look as they passed if all hope or possibility of future possessionweregone / We think they would, but on the other band we do not think that South Kensington Museum would ever attract like Regent Street. If the shops are, so to speak, dulled down, the museums and galleries will be more frequented, we should say—but how we should miss the windows And how we should welcome them back in all their glory I They will be the most effective of peace decorations, when the eclipse is past.
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