I PAID my reglar wisit to the Academy last week, and was glad to find
that my werry ernest remonstrance of last year had perduced sech a
change as regards Staggerers. No Miss Menads a hunting in Burnham
Beeches without no close on to speak of, and no Mr. Cassandra a carrying
off of a pore yung lady afore she's had time to dress, merely because
she upset the salad-bowl.
I don't think it's because "familyaryty breeds content," as the poet
says, that I am less staggered than last year, but becos there ain't so
many staggerers to be staggered at. Not that there ain't none. Why,
there's one lady in the werry same dishabil as Madame Wenus herself a
poring out somethink that the Catalog says is a incantashun, but then
her pecooliar costoom is reelly xcusable, for she's that red hot that
wood excuse anythink or nothink, as in her case.
One of the jolliest picturs to my mind is a portrate of a Port Wine
drinker. Why, it seems to be a oozing out of ewery pore of his skin! and
nothink younger than '63, I'll be bound. What a life to lead, and what a
life to look back upon with proud satisfacshun!
Poor Lord HARTINGTON looks terribly bored at having to be gazed at so
constantly by so many longing, if not loving, eyes, and at being pinted
at by the old dowagers as their bo ideall of a sun in law.
Ah, Mr. STORY tells us a story as I've offen witnessed, when a young
swell stands treat to a few frends and then ain't got enuff money to pay
the bill! Wot a nuisance for him, but still wuss for the Landlord, and
wussest of all for the pore Waiter. Poor Mr. GROSSMITH looks werry much
paler than when I saw him after a jolly dinner at the Mettropole. I
thinks as a glass or two of old Port would do him all the good in the
world.
I now come to another staggerer, that fairly puzzles me. It's a nice
young Lady, named, as I see by the Catalog, Euridice, which I beleeve is
Greek for "You're a nice one!" who is a trying for to pull a rock down,
but I'm sure she'll never do it, though she has taken off ewery morsel
of her close, ewen down to her stockings, to give her more strength. I
really wonders as she doesn't put a few of her things on, as she must
see as Mr. HADES is a cumming towards her, and won't he jest be shocked!
And then here's another young Lady, almost as lightly drest, a sitting
quietly on a large cold stone, as if there wasn't no North-East wind a
blowing, and by moonlight too. What time can she expect to git home, and
what will her poor Mother say when she sees her?
If I'd ha' bin Mr. HAYNE, Esq., M.P., I'd ha bort a new Hat afore I was
painted for my pictur, and ewen gone to the xpense of a new pair of
gloves, speshally as his pictur is a going to be given to sumbody. So
now he'll go down to remote posteriority with a shabby Hat, and a old
pair of gloves on his table. His new Coat looks butifool. It is, I'm
told, a capital likeness.
The LORD MARE is placed in his proper persition as first in the best
room, and looks as happy and as jolly as I've no dout he ginerally
feels, though he don't never seem to git no rest.
In the next rooms its the great Cardinal MANNING, who ewerybody loves
and respects, Waiters and all, though it does rather try our loyalty to
see him at dinner, when he don't eat enuff wittles to fatten a church
mouse. If I'd ha' bin Sir EDWARD WATKIN, the grate Railway King, I'd ha
had a much cleaner shave afore I set for my pictur than he had. I know
as he doesn't like to be thought a close shaver in gineral, but, in this
werry partickler case, he might have made a xcepshun to his gineral
rule.
There's a lovely pictur called Ambrosia, a ewident misprint for
Hambrosia--probably a new kind of sandwitch--in which there's a werry
model of a good-looking waitress a carrying such a elegant little
lunshon, as reelly made me quite hungry to look at. I thinks as the reel
natives is quite a triumph of Hart. There's quite a grand pictur of the
dear old Bank, with all the Carts and Cabs and Omnibuses, and people
being all scrowged up together, just like life, and ewerybody a
wondering how on earth they shall hever be able to cross, jest like
life, and the Bus Coachman a flirtin with the lady passenger on the box,
jest like life, and the Policeman a driving away the pore little beggar,
jest like life. Ah, it's a reel lovely pictur that is, and werry
creditabel to Mr. DOGSTAIL who I'm told painted it.
I think the most perthetic pictur in the hole lot is the one called "the
Dunce." He's a setting all by hisself, pore feller, what they calls
detained, a trying his werry best to do his lesson and he can't do it.
And why, coz his thoughts is away out in the playground, where he hears
the shouts and the larfing of his skool-fellers. Now, what shood I do,
Doctor ABBOTT, if I was his master? Why I shood let him have a nours run
with his playmates, and then, when he cums in fresh and jolly, try him
again, and praps he'd estonish you. I was a Dunce myself wunce,
spechally at spelling, and that's how _I_ was cured.
How werry contented all the Parsons looks, they lolls back in their
cumferal chairs as much as to say to the tired wisitors, "Don't you wish
you had sitch chairs as these to set in?" Some of the Solgers looks at
you jest as if they'd like to say, "What on airth are you staring at?"
I coud ony take jest a glance at the lovely landscapes; but oh, how nice
and cool and carm they all looked, after the staring portrates with
their flaring cullers. ROBERT.
* * * * *
"_THE Wye_" is among STANFORD'S Tourist Guides for this season. He ought
to issue another called "_The Wherefore_." If he doesn't show cause for
the tour, people will simply ask, "Why?" and stop at home.
* * * * *
MR. NEWTON will by this time have received quite a refreshing torrent of
abuse on his devoted head. No--not torrent--CASS-cade.
* * * * *
[Illustration: REMARKS ONE WOULD RATHER HAVE LEFT UNANSWERED.
_Lady Godiva._ "YES, MR. GREEN, I'VE BEEN PAINTED BY ALL THE MOST
CELEBRATED ARTISTS OF MY TIME; BUT NOT _ONE_ OF THEM HAS EVER DONE ME
JUSTICE!"
_Mr. Green._ "WHAT--NOT EVEN _SIR JOSHUA?_"]
* * * * *