is well enough for the child, but distasteful and absurd for the man, even though under its symbolic language much truth be hidden.
In modern art, the "Night" and "Day" by Thorwaldsen, so well known and so much admired, are similar specimens of the "Monstrous in Art"; the symbolic beauty of the work is such that we do not notice the untruth and the impossibility of the wings. The "Theseus slaying the Centaur," by Canova, displays another form of six-limbed monster, whose impossibility is evident after what has been said above, without the excuse of symbolism. In all our large cities we find symbolic paintings of an "angel overcoming Lucifer," in which are seen the same feathery pinions, widely spread and in violent action, with no possible means for their support or movement.
Here, as in many paintings and statues which will readily be brought to mind, as in the wall decorations at Pompeii, the "Victories," etc., we see a pretense of motion more or less active, and a possible use for wings could they exist. But what shall be said of the large and conspicuous tablets at the corners of the "Museum of Fine Arts" in Boston, in one of which the central and principal figure, styled the "Genius of Art," and so indicated by letters, is one of these impossible winged monsters?
The idea, however, is not original, but is an imitation of ancient art, in which a genius or tutelar god of man or his industries is usually represented with wings as well as arms.
In the above-mentioned tablet we see a nude figure, seated comfortably upon a chair, presumably quiet, with outstretched arms welcoming the nations who are bringing their representative works as offerings at the shrine of art; and yet this "Genius of Art," not content with arms and legs, at rest, has immense outstretched wings, indicative, if of anything, of active motion—anatomically, an impossible six-limbed creature; physiologically, an absurdity, implying the contradictory states of rest and motion at the same time; and, therefore, artistically, an unnatural, nondescript monster. A similar tablet is upon the other corner, if possible, more ridiculous than the first; the genius of art has found a winged brother monster, called "Industry." The two, each with wings and arms, are quietly seated, with wings widely stretched—we see in this the same anatomical impossibility, the same physiological absurdity, the same degradation of symbolism. As man is never intentionally absurd, let us attribute these and similar monstrosities to ignorance of nature's laws. If this be art, there is no gulf of absurdity too wide for symbolism to clear at a single bound.
Other winged angelic hexapods may be seen at each corner of the tower of the church on Commonwealth Avenue, with trumpets at their mouths; it is difficult to see how the wings in this case add anything but the ludicrous.
No permanence of embryonic conditions—no excess of growth, no union of parts of more than one individual—can explain or justify these
