PAINTER. You don’t mean to say you want me to sign it, when I tell you I

did not paint it? And a beastly copy it is, too!

PICTURE-DEALER. Vy not, goot sir? vy not? Tut! tut! tut! I only vish you

artis’s vos men of bis’ness!]

[Illustration: GADDY’S ACADEMY PICTURE ON VIEW.

ART CRITIC. You see you’ve got the duke seated and the duchess standing

up. Now couldn’t you make the duchess sitting down and the duke standing

up?

[_But Gaddy fears the council will not put off the exhibition for a

couple of months to enable him to take advantage of his friend’s

valuable suggestion._]

[Illustration: “FLATTERING.”

COOK. Laukadaisy me, Miss Mary, if it ain’t a’most like wax-work, I dew

declare!]

[Illustration: PROFESSION AND PRACTICE.

PAINTER. Wouldn’t care to be a painter, eh?

MODEL. Dear, no, sir! Rather be a doctor--their work ain’t so

criticised, and it don’t much matter whether it’s kill or cure.]

[Illustration: RAPID GENIUS. ’Ow do I manage it? Why, fust of all I

takes the brown and does all the cats and the rinds of the cheeses--then

I takes the yaller and goes over the cheeses, and puts in eyes and

stripes to the cats. With a brush o’ black I puts in the bottles and the

mice; finishes up with a dab o’ white on the bottles and in the mice’s

heyes--and there you are!]

[Illustration: CRITIC. De bicture you haff bainted is most peautiful;

der is only von vordt in the English langweege vot describes eet, and I

haf vorgotten eet.]

[Illustration: JONES (_to Brown, who has been to a ball at Robinson’s_).

Many women there?

BROWN. No; only their mothers.]

[Illustration: FOR EXHIBITION?

PAINTER. Oh! they won’t hang it, I know--’tis of no use sending it.

WIFE. Well, Michael, if you keep it here they won’t hang it, we

know--send it and try: they hang bad pictures sometimes.

[_Michael is encouraged._]

[Illustration: PRETTY INNOCENT.

LADY. Oh, Mr. Mastic, why do artists have screens about their studios?

ARTIST. To back up the figures, and so on.

LADY. Oh, really! Well, I thought it was to keep the bedstead and all

that out of sight, you know.]

[Illustration: “AYE, THERE’S THE RUB!”

IRASCIBLE PATRON (_who has wiped out a good deal of Funkie’s great

work_). Confound your nasty picture, sir! See what it has done! The

canvas is reeking with paint, sir--positively reeking! It’s disgraceful!

[_Exit in a whirlwind._]

[Illustration: ARTIST (_to his hypochondriacal friend with an

independence_). Ah! my dear fellow, if you had to work hard and get your

own living as we have, you’d have no dyspepsia, I’ll be bound;

good-bye.]

[Illustration: THE MARCH OF SCIENCE.

ARTIST (_as a hint to his friend_). Bless me! Five o’clock! I had no

idea it was so late. How quickly time does fly now!

YANKEE. Which I calc’late it’s all owin’ to the vast improvements

effected in clocks by our great country.]

[Illustration: THE REAL.

MARY JANE _in reply to_ OLIVIA.

“The same romantic creature as ever! His name is not Algernon, but plain

Robert; and he’s not an Apelles, but a hard-working fellow, with enough

of genius to make me proud of him. As to his model--etc., etc.

[_For “The Ideal,” see p. 156._]

[Illustration: PLEASURES OF THE STUDIO.

At the beginning of April, when every moment is of consequence, Mr.

Flake White’s model for Hamlet appears with a black eye, which he

declares is the effect of influenza.]

[Illustration: A HAPPY MEDIUM.

DEALER. Ah! there’s good transparency there. What do you mix your colour

with?

ARTIST. Brains.]

[Illustration: THE IDEAL.

_From_ OLIVIA _to_ MARY JANE

“And so, _dearest_, you have married _an artist!_ How like you, who was

always such an admirer of the _beautiful_. * * * I can see you ’_in my

mind’s eye_’; your Algernon (his name _is_ Algernon, is it not,

dearest?) seated like _another_ Apelles at his easel, whilst you, his

own Cantaspe, make the most graceful of models. You remember----

“Apelles, when Cantaspe’s form he drew,

Bade her remove the look of love she wore,

Lest others should adore,” etc., etc.

[_For “The Real,” see page 154._]

[Illustration: ARTIST. My big picture? I haven’t painted in the two

principal figures yet; because I can’t find anybody pretty enough to sit

for them. Ah! Miss _Mary_, if I could only induce _you_ just to----

MISS BRIDGET. Oh! my _dear_ Mr. M’Gilp, we should _both_ be only too

delighted! When shall we come to your studio? How shall we dress? and

what style of coiffure?

[_Now, what_ is _a fellow to say in such a fix as this?_]

* * * * *

James McNeill Whistler and a friend, strolling through a London suburb,

met a small boy. Whistler asked him his age.

“Seven,” the boy replied.

“Oh, you must be more than seven,” said Whistler doubtingly.

“Seven,” insisted the boy, rather pleased at being taken for older.

Turning to his friend, Whistler said, “Do you think it possible that he

really could have got as dirty as that in only seven years?”

[Illustration: ANSWERS FOR OUR ARTIST.--“Biddy Maloney, just you look at

that clock! Didn’t I tell you last night to knock at my door at eight

this morning?”

“An’ so ye did, sir, and I came to the door at eight sure enough, but I

heard ye was making no noise at all!”

“Well, why the dickens didn’t you knock, and wake me?”

“Sure, and because I feared yez might be fast asleep!”]

[Illustration: THE MOTHER OF INVENTION.

Mrs. Fred doesn’t care how long she sits for her “dear Fred,” so long as

her “darling Freddy” is in some safe place where he can’t get into

mischief.]

[Illustration: KINDLY MEANT.

CHROME (_to friend_). Well, and how do I get on with the doublet? Is it

more like leather?

CONSCIENTIOUS FRIEND. Why, no; I can’t say it is--but (_apologetically_)

you’ve got the face very like leather.]

[Illustration: PAINTER (_aghast_).--Good heavens, man! Where’s your

beard? What have you done to your face?

MODEL. Me, sir? Naethin, but just made my whiskers a wee thing decent

wi’ the shears.

PAINTER. Then you’re an utterly ruined man, sir! and I’m very sorry for

you. You’re not worth twopence. Good-morning.]

[Illustration: How some of the old painters _must_ have worked to get

through anything like the number of “original” pictures attributed to

them.]

[Illustration: STUDIO PERSUASION.

_Our friend Jack McGilp to excited partner, who has just the head for

his picture of “A Husband’s Revenge.”_--So she won’t stand any longer,

won’t she? Of course she won’t. _I’ll get a model._

[_The effect is magical._]

[Illustration: COOK. Lawks, miss, it’s beautiful; but I’d no idea your

pa was a portrait painter!]

[Illustration: A MODEL HUSBAND AND A LAY FIGURE.

What Miss Grundy saw in her brother-in-law’s studio.

_What Miss Grundy said about it to her sister._--“Perfectly

disgraceful--and to crown it all she was bald!”]

[Illustration: MARVELLOUS!

YOUNG LADY. Ah! really, Mr. Splurge, I can’t think how you manage to

paint with such taste.

MR. S. Simply by holding my palate in my hand, I assure you.]

[Illustration: A VISIT TO THE STUDIO.

MR. OCHRE (_through whose frame a thrill of horror is supposed to be

passing_). Ugh! mind what you’re about, Charley. Mind my Ophelia; mind

my Ophelia! You’ll knock her over, and spoil all her folds!]

[Illustration: SCENE IN A STUDIO.

Jack Armstrong has painted a modern subject, from real life, and painted

it uncommonly well.--Strange to say, he has sold his picture.

Messrs. Feeble and Potter (_very high-art men, who can’t get on

without mediæval costume, and all the rest of it_) think it a

mistake.--Curiously enough, _their_ pictures are unsold.]

[Illustration: Ballet of action with which Sparkles (who says he is so

hard at work at his picture), and his friend and model, Jack Bounce,

refresh themselves in the intervals of labour.]

[Illustration: TURPS _v._ TURPITUDE.

The above represents a slight mistake made by Scumble’s new charwoman,

who, being “partial to her drops,” thought she had a chance.]

[Illustration: ONE USE FOR “DUNDREARYS.” (1863.)

Fitzdab (_who does the Dundreary sort of thing_) having brought his

whiskers to a pitch of perfection seldom equalled, gives the finishing

touches to Dolly Jenkins’s portrait with the tips.]

[Illustration: ACCOMMODATING!

STERN PARENT. Too fat for a page, you think, sir? Um! You see, sir, if

so be you could wait a week or so, we could redooce him wery easy.]

[Illustration: COTTON LORD (_“coming” the noble patron_). Haw--I was

indooced to buy a little picture of yours, the other day, Stodge,

haw----

ARTIST (_who does not seem to see it_). Lucky fellow!!]

[Illustration: “NOBLESSE OBLIGE!”

STODGE (_in answer to the reproachful look of his cabman_). Well, it’s

your right fare; you know that as well as I do!

CABBY. Oh! which I’m well aware o’ that, sir! But--(“_more in sorrow

than in anger_”)--an’ you a artis’, sir!!

[_Gets another shilling!_]

[Illustration: OUR ART-SCHOOL CONVERSAZIONE.

At which (in consequence of the increased space anticipated at the R.A.

exhibition) there is a greater crowd than usual.

MODEL (_who has charge of the hats and coats_). No. 97? Yessir. There

now! If I didn’t see that ’at--ah--not a quarter of an hour ago!!

[_Not a very satisfactory look-out for Bouncefield, who has barely

time to catch his last train!_]

[Illustration: OUR ARTIST THINKS OF PAINTING A PICTURE FROM MACAULAY’S

“IVRY,”

AND DECLAIMS THE POEM TO A PROSAIC PARTY.

OUR ARTIST (_ore rot._). “* * * * *

Charge by the golden lilies! upon them with the lance!

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,

A thousand knights are pressing close behind----”

PROSAIC PARTY (_interrupting_). Hullo!

OUR ARTIST. Eh?

PROSAIC PARTY. Why, hang it, that’s only one spur a-piece!]

[Illustration: “SHARP’S THE WORD.”

_Enter Lord Blasonby (hastily) to sit for his portrait in Stodge’s

picture of the Chalkshire hunt._

STODGE. I understood you to say you would come yesterday, my lord; and I

am engaged this morning. Lady Flouncer is coming at one o’clock.

MY LORD. Haw! just in time, then. Cut away. You’ve got a good ten

minutes. Wants a quarter to one, now!]

“I ordered you to paint me some cows in a stable. I see the stable,

but where are the cows?”

“They are in the stable.”

“So is your pay for this picture. You had better bring both out.”

[Illustration: THE SYMPATHIES OF ART.

TAILOR (_to artist customer_). Looky ’ere, sir,--I’ll put it to you!

you’re a drawer yourself, and if you knew the years I’ve been studyin’

the ’uman figger--you wouldn’t tell me that coat don’t fit!]

[Illustration: UNDER A GREAT MASTER.]

[Illustration: FAST COLOURS.

ARTIST (READING NOTE FROM OBLIGED FRIEND). Um,--um,--much obliged to you

for the loan of your Bedouin’s dress--(um,--um,)--will return it in a

day or two, as I’ve, (ah! what!) sent it--to--the WASH!!

[_The artist’s feelings (for colour

especially) may be easier imagined

than described._]

[Illustration: NOBODY DESIRES THE PAINTER TO MAKE HIM AS UGLY AND AS

RIDICULOUS AS POSSIBLE.

(In this engraving by George Cruikshank the figure of the artist is a

portrait of Cruikshank himself.)]

* * * * *

“What colour of hair do you prefer, Mr. Baldwon, black or blonde?”

“I would not care what colour it was, if I only had some!”

* * * * *

“Your last book, madame, had a colossal success.”

“I should say so! Every one of my three divorced husbands wanted to

re-marry me!”

* * * * *

A great man was complaining of all the charities to which he was forced

to contribute.

“I give without counting,” he groaned.

“Yes, but not without recounting,” replied a friend.

[Illustration: PERFECT SINCERITY; OR, THINKINGS ALOUD.

ARTIST NO. 1. There, Master Oker, I flatter myself that will take the

shine out of your precious production, although you do think nobody can

paint but yourself.

ARTIST NO. 2. Hey! dear, dear, dear! That’s very bad. By jove, my boy,

it’s a dreadful falling-off from last year. If I were you, I should

think twice before I sent it in.

ARTIST NO. 1. Mere envy--illiberal humbug.]

* * * * *

PROFESSOR. I came in accordance with an invitation I received to examine

your collection of curiosities.

PARVENU (_just returned from long voyage_). Certainly, professor, walk

right in. Allow me to first introduce to you my wife and daughters.

[Illustration: EASILY SATISFIED.

FOND PARENT. I don’t care, Mr. Medium, about it’s being highly finished;

but I should like the dear child’s expression preserved.]

* * * * *

FIRST AUTHOR. “Well, what do you think of the book of our colleague

Tintinger?”

SECOND AUTHOR. “Oh, what a shameless bidder for notoriety!”

“What! How so?”

“Did you not read the dedication, ’To my mother-in-law, with sincere

esteem’?”

* * * * *

FIRST ARTIST. Well, are you satisfied with the appreciation that marine

view of yours has received?

SECOND ARTIST. Delighted. Two women just stopped in front of it and one

said to the other, “It just makes me seasick to look at it.”

[Illustration: THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON.

FRAME-MAKER (_who comes to measure Stodge’s academy pictures_). Now, I

think it’s a pity you don’t let me have some o’ these for my winder,

since you have no idea of the amount of rubbish I can get rid of at

times.]

* * * * *

There has been much discussion as to the assistance that photography

might render judicial authorities in enabling the arrest of criminals.

Yet this is what recently occurred in France. Six photographs in

different poses of the same criminal who had escaped from prison were

sent out to all the communes of France. From the mayor of one of these

districts the following letter was received:

“Five of the criminals whose photographs you sent have already been

arrested; we are on the track of the sixth.”

[Illustration: AS SCUMMLES’S PICTURES ARE INVARIABLY “SKYED” AT THE

ROYAL ACADEMY, HE HAS GIVEN UP HIGH FINISH, AND ADAPTS HIS STYLE TO THE

CIRCUMSTANCES!]

[Illustration: ROUND THE GALLERIES

CAUTION.--(To the two young ladies in pink bonnets who expressed such

enthusiasm about Mr. B. Stubbs’s pictures, and would so like to see that

“dear Mr. Stubbs.”) The tall young man who on overhearing the above

praise, wetted his pocket-handkerchief, and removed an imaginary speck

of dust from Mr. S.’s picture, thereby trying to convey the impression

that he was the fortunate man who had painted it, is some impudent

impostor, and never touched a canvas before in his life. Mr. B. Stubbs

is a good-looking, _short_ man, with wideawake, auburn beard and

spectacles.]

PAINTERS AND GAZERS

A SKETCH AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY

[Illustration]

I had hopes--I know that they have proved to be unfounded, but I

cannot admit that they were unreasonable!--I _had_ hopes that I should

have been able to avail myself of the privilege of free admission

conceded to exhibitors. Unfortunately, I do not exhibit!

I sent three pictures! 1 (a pre-Raphaelite bit of nature), “Docks and

Marsh Mallows”; 2 (an attempt to depict a really unhackneyed

historical situation), “Charles the Second in the Oak”; 3 (a genre

painting), “The New Crinoline.”

If it were becoming (which it is not) I could say a good deal about

these works; but I forbear to do so. _They were all three rejected by

the Hanging Committee._

I have accordingly paid my shilling, and I mean to take it out in

criticism. The Academicians have exercised _their_ rights; I shall use

mine. There will be plenty of hacks to fawn upon the imbecile

canvas-spoilers, the miserable, crass, cringing, dull, feeble,

superannuated, impotent, and abject Forty. Of those hacks I decline to

be one. Honest truth (uninfluenced by passion) is what the wretched

dotards shall hear from _me_.

[Illustration]

I saw men prowling about (there was Mr. Thackeray, for instance, as

large as life, and a host of other “successful” men--_I_ hate

success!) who had evidently made up their minds to be pleased with

this, the most disreputable Exhibition that ever degraded British Art.

Let them. Thoughts is free, as Mrs. Brown said at the play; _and so

are mine_. It is all very well to get a set of literary time-servers

to hob and nob with Academicians at the annual orgie which disgraces

Trafalgar-square, and on which hundreds of pounds are spent that ought

to be devoted to the development of talent such as that of--well, of

some I _could_ name; but _I_ was never invited to the so-called

banquet. Banquet, indeed! I would rather maintain my honest

independence, though I had nothing to eat but a polony--and this is

sometimes the case! Look at young Mr. Marcus Stone. I’ll be bound to

say _he_ never eats polonies--and yet all London is talking of his

“Napoleon,” whilst my “New Crinoline” has not yet met even with a

dealer!

[Illustration: AN ARTIST’S DREAM, AFTER SENDING IN HIS PICTURES WET TO

THE ROYAL ACADEMY.]

Look at Mr. Ruskin. What did they do to _him_? Why, they asked him to

dinner! What was the result?

His Critical Notes have never appeared since!! Not that it matters

much.

[Illustration: The advantage of the practice of “athletic exercises” by

young painters, as recommended by a great critic.]

[Illustration: The proprietors of the Royal Academy don’t see why they

should be troubled with so many works by other fellows. Oh dear, no! Let

them exhibit their pictures outside!]

Exhibition, indeed! Why, you can’t see anything--not that there is

much to see--for the crowd of gaping women that block up the hideous

and uncomfortable rooms with their preposterous crinoline--and yet the

Academicians rejected _mine_! Then, the “swells”--a set of lounging

insipid imbeciles, drawling out their vapid Dundrearyisms--and the old

fogies, wagging their stupid old heads--I should like to knock a few

of them together!--and the smug, smiling fellows whose pictures have

been accepted--and the “Art-Critics,” who pretend to see power in a

man like Millais, and poetry in a man like Hook, and humour in a man

like Marks, but who are far too high and mighty, I promise you, to

come up four pair of stairs and see my “Marsh Mallows,”--and if they

did, they couldn’t appreciate them! There, I’m tired of the whole

concern--pictures and painters and visitors and all--and Mrs. Edwards

is bothering me for the rent--and, unless you print this, to show up

the impostors, and send the money by return, I shall have to paint

sign-boards. David Cox painted one--and I dare say did it badly--for I

never thought much of _him_! Or any other man!

_Fun_, 1863.

[Illustration: PLEASURES OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY.]

[Illustration: ART IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY.

ENID (_with catalogue_). Aren’t they splendid?

EILEEN (_using picture as mirror_). Yes, I _must_ say I like these dark

Rembrandts.]

[Illustration: OUTSIDE THE ROYAL ACADEMY.

“You were a silly ass to talk of Botticelli in that way just now. Why,

it’s not a wine, it’s a cheese!”]

[Illustration: THE CHARMING FASHION OF LONG SKIRTS (1862).

Honestly, now--which of the two ought to apologize to the other?]

* * * * *

POET. What do you think of this little poem of mine, “She Would Not

Smile.”

EDITOR. I think if you had read the poem to her she would have smiled.

* * * * *

PROFESSOR (_turning angrily to class_). This is intolerable! Every time

I speak an imbecile talks.

* * * * *

BOARDER (_to landlady_). Did you hear me come home last night?

LANDLADY. Did I? I heard you coming home for several hours!

[Illustration: “UNTO THIS LAST.”

PROVINCIAL (_at the Leeds Exhibition_). I’ve heeard as the paint on some

o’ these yere “picters” comes to a matter o’ fi’ pounds sometimes, let

alone the man’s time a layin’ of it on, yer know!!!]

[Illustration: “VERY LIKE--VERY LIKE.”

Mr. B. A. Boone having given Smudger, R.H.A., leave to exhibit his

portrait, is intensely delighted to find there is a slight mistake in

the catalogue, and that the description really belonging to No. 82--“B.

A. Boone, Esq., F.Z.S., etc.”--has been transferred to No. 28.]

* * * * *

EISENSTEIN. Hello, old man, what makes you look so worried?

ROSENSTEIN. The doctor ordered me to take a bath!

_Eisenstein._ Cheer up, old man! You can try this new dry cleaning

process.

* * * * *

“See what a beautiful set of teeth the baroness has!”

MISS N. V. “Yes, it looks as if she had swallowed a piano, all but the

keyboard.”

* * * * *

CHARMING YOUNG WOMAN (_to artist_). But a hundred pounds seems to me too

much for my portrait. I find it so easy to paint myself!

* * * * *

“You say your manager threw an inkstand at you?”

“Yes, he did, but I must say for him that he threw the blotting pad

after it.”

[Illustration: THE UMBRELLA QUESTION:

Or, what it would have come to, if some people had had their way.]

[Illustration: PICTURES OF THE ENGLISH, PAINTED BY THE FRENCH.

AN ENGLISH NOBLEMAN, 1848.

MILORD. Godam! Rosbif! I shall sell my wife at Smithfield. Dam!]

* * * * *

ETHEL. Good-morning, Mr. Jones. You don’t seem to mind the heat!

JONES (_surlily_). I should say not. All my friends have given me the

cold shoulder.

* * * * *

“How attractive that lady over there is! What a fine profile! What

thoughtful, dreamy eyes! If I could only find out in what branch of

knowledge she is especially interested! Listen! She is asking the

librarian something. I wonder what it is.”

LIBRARIAN. “No, madame, I do not know whether he was here yesterday.”

[Illustration: A-MUSING.

MCDAUBER (_who is so afflicted with the habit of thinking aloud_).

Charming bit of colour, that! Marvellous chiaroscuro. Wonder who it’s

by?

[_Oddly enough it is by McDauber himself!_]

[Illustration: PERHAPS.

STOUT FASHIONABLE PARTY. What guys they made of themselves in those

days, aunt!

SLIM OLD DITTO. Fashion, my dear! I should not wonder but we shall be

looked on as _perfect frights_ in future times!!]

[Illustration: Reception of pictures at the Royal Academy.--Arrival of

the “Portrait of a Gentleman.”]

“Madame, I have picked out a charming husband for you. Only I warn you

he is a thorough sportsman. Fond of motoring, mountain-climbing,

bicycling, and ballooning.”

APPLICANT (_thoughtfully_). “Can’t you give me something that lasts

longer?”

* * * * *

“I can’t understand how a man can commit suicide for love.”

“It happens frequently.”

“Well, perhaps so, but if I did it, I should regret it all my life.”

* * * * *

“Hello, Jimson, whither so fast?”

“Don’t stop me. I’m going to my employer’s funeral, and there is

nothing he hates so much as to have any one come in late.”

OUR

HISTORICAL

PORTRAIT

GALLERY

1.--HENRY THE EIGHTH

2.--DR. JOHNSON

3.--HENRY THE THIRD OF FRANCE

4.--NAPOLEON I

5.--LOUIS THE ELEVENTH

6.--OLIVER CROMWELL

7.--FREDERICK THE GREAT

[Illustration: 1.]

[Illustration: 2.]

[Illustration: 3.]

[Illustration: 4.]

[Illustration: 5.]

[Illustration: 6.]

[Illustration: 7.]

[Illustration: A STUDY.

Stodge and his friends, Madlake and Blumold, have learnt that their

pictures are hung this year. So, here they are, looking out for some

nice dressy ties for the opening of the Academy. Ah! it’s all very well

to laugh, but personal appearance and “get-up” generally is a very

important thing nowadays, mind you!]

[Illustration: OVERHEARD AT THE ACADEMY.

FIRST ART-CRITIC. Not a bad bit of colour that--great hairial effect,

too!

SECOND DITTO. Jolliest thing in the exhibition, by Jingo!

[_An explanation of the above is requested;--we cannot find Mr.

Jingo’s name in the catalogue._]

A DREAM OF UNFAIR WOMEN

BY CLEMENT W. SCOTT.

I read, as daylight broadened into morn,

_A Tale of Unfair Women_, in the pause,

“My youth!” one said, “whenever you have sworn,

These women were the cause!”

At first methought a lady at a ball

Sat with black-bearded warriors by the stair,

She was _décolletée_ and divinely tall,

With long, gold-dusted hair.

A meek young gentleman approached her seat,

His gloves were split, his waistcoat buttons false;

She gazed an instant at his clumsy feet,

Then sneered, “I do not valse!”

I saw a pic-nic by the river side,

On scarlet rugs one sat, apart from man,

Queenlike she was, dark-haired and dreamy-eyed,

Hat-bound with astracan.

A melancholy captain in the line

Drew near at last to pour forth all his heart;

She turned, “A thousand pardons, friend of mine,

Where is my cherry-tart?”

A maid, blue-stockinged, broke the silence drear,

And flashing forth a winning smile, said she,

“’Tis long since I have seen a man. Come here,

Play croquet now with me.”

She “spooned,” and cheated, and had ankles thick,

I let her win, the game was such a bore,

Her bright ball quivered at the coloured stick--

Touched,--and we played no more.

I turning saw a couple newly wed;

She--lately fond of flirting, and a belle--

Now contradicted every word he said,

And bullied him as well.

She said, “Oh! bother business; really, dear,

You’ve no more feeling for me than a stone;

I wish my kind mamma lived somewhere near--

I won’t be left alone!”

I was cut off from hope in such a place!

An evening party whence I dared not roam,

My sister held her hand before her face,

I longed to be at home.

I strove to stir, but I was victimized

To talk to dowagers; between the sets

Two voiceless females, old and undersized,

Chirp’d Mendelssohn’s duets.

But soon my eyes were turned towards a stage--

This was an awful sight, it haunts me yet--

I saw a lady, of uncertain age,

Burlesquing Juliet.

I saw a spectacled, but wild mamma,

Coaxing her daughter with a fair-haired lad;

Then, hearing he made nothing, frowned; and, ah!

Called the young man “a cad.”

I heard old maids take characters away;

I saw young ladies dress like men and smoke;

An authoress next read a five-act play,

’Twas wicked, and I woke.

_Fun_, 1865.

[Illustration:

1.--_Early Pie-ety._

2.--_The Mother’s Pet._

3.--_Rough Weather off the Coast of Devon._

4.--_A Shady Pool._

5.--_A Village Style._

6.--_The Mace-bearer._

7.--_Summer._

8.--_Spring._

A FEW SUGGESTIONS FOR THE ROYAL ACADEMY CATALOGUE. (1868.)]

[Illustration: THE ARTIST OUT OF DOORS

“IT’S AN ILL WIND,” ETC.

Our artist takes advantage of the utter prostration of the poor sick

passengers, and fills his sketch-book.]

[Illustration: THE OLD COTTAGE.]

[Illustration: _Scene_--The Elysium of Artists. Albert Durer, Rafael,

Michael Angelo, Titian, Paul Veronese, Rubens, Reynolds, etc.]

IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS

_P. Veronese._ And you saw this English Painter, who has last arrived

among us, Sir Joshua?

_Sir J. Reynolds._ I did--and, faith, with the more interest that such

arrivals become, every day, more rare. But I would rather keep back

his tidings from our friends here.

_All._ Nay--speak--speak!

_Rubens._ You know, my friend, we have no jealousies here--nor

schools.

_Rafael._ Our noble Michael has forgiven my youthful presumption.

_M. Angelo._ Not a word of that--I was to blame. _Basta!_ You acted

nobly, gracefully, kindly as ever.

_Titian._ The outline of Rome embraces the colour of Venice; and

Titian here, after life, recognizes the might of Michael Angelo, and

the saintliness of Rafael.

_Rubens._ Strange how blind we were on earth!

[Illustration: “A PRETTY PROSPECT!”

NATIVE (_to our Landscape Painter, who has come down to sketch_). Why,

sir, in this ’ere valley that you’re a goin’ to, you may see--ah--three

splendid viaducts all at once, and one o’ the largest cloth factories in

the West of England!]

_A. Durer._ But the news from England?

_M. Angelo._ I love your commercial races and their merchant princes.

Florence should have been my home. Has England such patrons of art as

Soderini--

_Rafael._ Or as my dear Agostino Chigi? He was a banker, but had the

soul of a king. How I loved him! Are there such bankers in England?

[Illustration: ARTIST. This canvas is going to create a sensation.]

[Illustration: Crack!

THE POSSIBILITIES OF A PENNY PISTOL AND A BOX OF CAPS.]

[Illustration: TECHNICAL AND PRACTICAL.

MAULSTIC. Hullo, Jack, what _are_ you after?

JACK. Oh, my foreground didn’t come well, so I’m _putting it together_ a

bit.]

_A. Durer._ Or as my worthy burghers of Nüremberg--the friends of

Luther and Melancthon--are such the shopkeepers of England?

_P. Veronese._ Or such traders as my noble Levantine merchants of the

Rialto?

[Illustration: How two friends of ours who can’t bear being looked over

while they are sketching, circumvented the impertinent curiosity of the

vulgar.]

[Illustration: Old Streekie, R.A., thought it very hard that he could

not run down to the seaside for a week, after the opening of the

Academy, without meeting “that pre-Raphaelite fellow Cleevidge loafing

about there, the first time he walks out.”]

[Illustration: WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS.

MISS JONES (_loq._). So glad there are no horrid cows in the field this

morning.]

_Reynolds._ Hush! friends, one at a time, or I drop my ear-trumpet, as

I used to do, when Boswell would put troublesome questions. I fear

England hardly boasts such men as you have mentioned. But there is a

large subscription to the Art-Union, and bad pictures are greedily

bought at small prices; good ones at large prices are few in number,

and of that few still fewer are sold.

_Rubens._ I grieve to hear it. But what of your English sovereign? His

Majesty, Charles the First (I was ambassador to his Court, you may

remember, from my royal friend, Philip of Spain) would stand by my

easel for hours, watching me at work, and discoursing to me of art.

Doubtless, your sovereign shows like grace to our brethren of this

later time?

[Illustration: A DESIGN FOR AN ALBUM.

The artist who gives up his time to drawing in albums is like a

midshipman on half pay--gets “nothing a day and finds himself.”]

_A. Durer._ Nay, you are modest, my Rubens. For the _Liebe Deutsche

Schule_, I must speak for you. Not Charles alone--but the Gonzaga of

Mantua, Duke Albert, Philip the Spaniard, and the queenly Medici,

gloried in calling you their friend and counsellor.

_M. Angelo._ They did not honour Art--Art honoured them. How often

have I told that hard truth to our Holy Father, fiery old Julius! He

cuffed his Chamberlain once, for denying it. But for my own part, I

never much affected your kings and great folks.

[Illustration: This is Jack Sparkles, who used to be such a thorough

pre-Raphaelite, as we came upon him “at work” the other day--at least he

called it so. He said he had come to the conclusion that “painting was,

after all, more or less a matter of memory, and that he was studying

skies!!”]

_Rafael._ Thy noble nature disdained such shelter as we weaker and

more luxurious spirits were fain to take under their escutcheons. And

our Leonardo here--Francis, seemed never so great a king as when he

picked up thy pencil, oh, my friend, lord not only of thine art, but

of all knowledge!

[Illustration: CULTURE FOR THE MILLION; OR, SOCIETY AS IT MAY BE.

INGENUAS DIDICISSE FIDELITER ARTES, etc., etc.--NURSEMAID. The

perspective of the _Chiaroscuro_ is divine, Augustus. But, oh! the

_impasto_, is it not a _leetle_ too _pizzicato_?]

_Leonardo da Vinci._ Is Art so honoured by the great of England?

_Sir J. Reynolds._ Hum! Oh, His Majesty George the III was pleased to

give a charter to the Royal Academy. I have been presented--but,

certainly, I don’t remember to have seen him in my painting room at

Leicester Square, or to have been asked to take a seat in the Privy

Council.

_Rafael._ But your reigning monarch is a Queen. Woman has ever loved

the Beautiful. Surely she much affects you painters.

_Sir J. Reynolds._ Hum--ha--I am extremely deaf.

_P. Veronese_ (_shouting into his trumpet_). Does the Queen give due

honour to our brethren?

_Sir J. Reynolds._ I am assured she has had painted already ten

portraits of her gracious self, thirty of her Royal consort, twenty of

the Royal infants, and fifty of the Royal pets, from paroquet to

Brazilian monkey.

_M. Angelo._ These are your court painters, who so disgrace their

calling. But your _Artists_? How goes it at the palace with them?

_Rubens._ Seated at the Royal board, doubtless--in places of honour.

_L. da Vinci._ Where else should sit the architects, engineers,

philosophers, poets of the nation--in whom all knowledge is orbed

around the Beautiful, and grows to Art?

_Sir J. Reynolds._ I am not informed that they _do_ sit _exactly_ at

the Royal board, but the equerries’ table is excellent--and no

doubt----

_M. Angelo._ _Basta!_ Do not mince words, man--out with it. The

painters’ table with the lackeys! Excellent England!

[Illustration: AN ARTIST SCAMP IN THE HIGHLANDS.

ARTIST (_entering_). My good woman, if you’ll allow me, I’ll just paint

that bedstead of yours.

COTTAGER (_with bob-curtsey_). Thank ye, sir, I’ sure it’s very kind of

ye--but dinna ye think the wee yin wants it more?]

_Titian_ (_aside_). These islanders! But our pictures which adorn your

English galleries, my Bacchus and Ariadne--I painted it for Gonzaga.

_M. Angelo._ Well remembered, Vicellio. There’s Sebastiano’s picture,

too, in your gallery; I painted the Lazarus, my Rafael, to shame thee.

Blister my hand for it! How of it?

_Rafael._ It is a noble work, and I was honoured by such a rivalry.

_Rubens._ And my Peace and War? I painted it for your Charles, before

I opened my negotiation for peace with Spain. Surely it is well

cared-for, as a historic record, if not as a picture?

_Sir J. Reynolds._ Really my trumpet is out of order--I must go.

_P. Veronese_ (_pulling him back_). Nay, nay, you must tell us of our

pictures. Do they stand your fogs and damps? Are they still brightly

mellow, defying time and circumstance as such art should do?

[Illustration: INGENIOUS PROTECTION AGAINST MIDGES--A VALUABLE HINT TO

SKETCHERS FROM NATURE.]

[Illustration: SKETCHING FROM NATURE.

Miss Raphael makes a study for her grand picture, “The Day after the

Deluge.”]

_Sir J. Reynolds._ Why, the fact is, my friends--I am sorry to

say--but our climate is so very damp, and London so smoky--that they

have been cleaned.

_All._ Cleaned!

_Titian._ My Bacchus and Ariadne! Oh my tints! Oh my glazings! A

picture of mine cleaned!

_Rubens._ My Peace and War! Cleaned! say flayed rather. I know your

cleaners. Oh wasted labour; reputation obscured; thoughtful work

rudely scrubbed away!

_All._ Shame and horror!

[Illustration: FIRST ARTIST (_who has looked in as he was passing_). How

are you? I say, Stapyton, have you heard what your “Cavalier in a

Coal-Hole” went for at Jobinson’s yesterday?

SECOND ARTIST. No; how much, my dear fellow; how much?

FIRST ARTIST. Why, very nearly a pound, I heard!

OMNES (_delighted_). Hurrah!]

_M. Angelo._ So much for your _oil-painting_. Nay--excuse me, my

Rafael--I sympathize with you; but why not work in fresco? Cheer up,

my Titian.

[Illustration: ART AT A CATTLE SHOW.

FIRST SMALL BOY. I say, Bill, what’s he a doing of?

SECOND DITTO. Can’t you see he’s a-taking that old gent’s picture, and

_isn’t_ it like him?]

[Illustration: WHAT AN ARTIST HAS TO PUT UP WITH.

“O! look’ee ’ere, Jane, ’ere’s one of them hacrobats a-goin’ to do the

ladder-trick!”]

_Titian._ Alas! my favourite work--my Bacchus! Cleaned! Oh Ghost of

Gonzaga! Barbarians!

_Leonardo da Vinci._ Nay, weep not, my beloved friends and brothers.

Is it not all of a piece? Art-Unions, royal lap-dogs, condescensions

which are insults, and your great pictures ruined and destroyed. Why

should you wish to exist in a country where your works have been

impotent to implant the seeds of Art, or aid in their growth and

nurture.

_Titian._ _Oimè_ for Venice.

_Rafael._ Oh Roma, Roma!

_A. Durer._ Nay--Nüremberg, also, is a town of burghers, and it is not

so with them.

_Sir J. Reynolds_ (_aside_). I cannot console them. Their indignation

is too well grounded. I, too, am a painter, but I alone am ashamed of

my country!

_Punch_, 1847.

[Illustration: Our artist enjoying himself in the Highlands. * * * * “On

fine hot days, I have this to carry on my back.”]

[Illustration: “On wet days, with my waterproof clothing, I am as

comfortable as possible.”--_Extract from a Private Letter._]

[Illustration: “THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE (SKETCHING) SEASON.”

PAPA. There, Henry! If you could do like that, I’d have you _taught

drawing_, my boy!]

[Illustration: “FINE ART.”

RURAL CONNOISSEUR. He’s a p’intin’ two pictur’s at once, d’yer see?

’Blest if I don’t like that there little ’un as he’s got his thumb

through, the best!]

[Illustration: “BROTHER BRUSH.”

SHIP-PAINTER. Nice dryin’ weather for our business, ain’t it, sir?

AMATEUR (_disconcerted_). Ya-a-s!

[_Takes a dislike to the place_]

[Illustration: MAKING THE BEST OF IT.

To artists who have big pictures returned on their hands:--“If you can’t

live _by_ them, live _under_ them!”]

[Illustration: ONE REASON, CERTAINLY!

FIRST ARTIST. Who’ll be the next Academician?

SECOND ARTIST. Oh, Faddler, my dear fellow, unquestionably!

FIRST ARTIST (_incredulous_). Nonsense!

SECOND ARTIST. Oh, there’s no doubt about it! A very good fellow, you

know, and he’s lived a long time at St. John’s Wood!]

[Illustration: ÆSTHETICS.

FADSBY (_in agony; he’s a martyr to the decorative art of the nineteenth

century_). Oh! Mrs. Grabbit--I really must--implore you--to remove those

chimney ornam--ugh!--those two--fictile abominations--from this room

while I remain he-ar!

[_Of all the artis’s, Mrs. Grabbit said, as she’d ever let

her apartments to, he was the most partic’lar._]

[Illustration: A BROAD HINT.

STUMPY ARTIST (_to friend with a Government appointment and lots of

time_). Come and see my picture; can’t you come in the daytime early?

And look ’ere: do you know a tall, handsome, gentlemanly-looking fellow,

with a light beard and moustache, who would sit to me for my Hungarian

Chief?]

[Illustration: PLEASANT FOR JACK DAUBS, WHO IMAGINES THAT HIS DRAWINGS

ARE RATHER TURNERESQUE.

FIRST ART CRITIC. I do b’lieve he’s a-painting the sky.

SECOND DITTO. Noa, he ain’t. He’s a-painting them people.

THIRD DITTO. Noa, he’s a-doing sommut out of his head.]

[Illustration: FLATTERING!

FIRST RUSTIC. ’Str’or’nary way o’ gettin’ yer livin’! Ain’t it, Joe?

SECOND DITTO. Aye, that ’t be, William. _Cripples_ o’ some sort, most on

’em, you may depend!]

[Illustration: OUR ADVENTUROUS ARTIST

Sketching on the Cornish coast, he has taken precautions against

slipping over the rocks. Our artist is seen, from below, by the learned

German Professor Longbauer, who, after he made the most of it in his

_Travels_, described this incident as an instance of the cruel treatment

of their political prisoners by the English Government!]

[Illustration: ART AND SCIENCE.

MAHLSTYCK (_who has been at it all day for a week making a

pre-Raphaelite study of seashore_). I say, some of you fellows in the

gunboat yesterday very nearly hit me once or twice!

JACK TAR. Lor, was that you sittin’ here yesterday, sir? Why, you was so

still we thought you was a bush or summut--we was _practisin’ at you_!]

[Illustration: AN EYE FOR COLOUR.

1ST ART STUDENT. Fine sunset that, Jack, but fancy I’ve seen it before.

2ND DITTO. Of course; decided crib from Turner. Saw it at a glance!]

[Illustration: IGNORANCE _WAS_ BLISS.

WAITER. Yes, sir. We had a gentleman here, only last week, as took a

sketch of that very ’ill, sir.

ARTIST (_abstractedly_). Oh, indeed! Was he an artist?

WAITER (_indignantly_). Oh, no! sir--a perfect gentleman.]

[Illustration: OUR ARTIST

IS NOT IN THE BEST OF TEMPERS. HE HAS BEEN DISTURBED OFTEN BY BARGES,

AND BOTHERED BY THE BLUEBOTTLES, AND THEN HE’S ACCOSTED BY WHAT APPEARS

TO HIM IN THIS IRRITABLE MOOD TO BE AN

ART-CRITIC (_loq._). The picture looks better a goodish bit off,

gov’nour!

ARTIST (_maddened_). Con-found--So do you, sir!

[_Party makes off hastily, “not liking the looks of him.”_]

[Illustration: SCULPTURE & COMEDY

“Well, there’s one thing: ’e’s well _broke_!”]

[Illustration: THE VENUS OF MILO; OR, GIRLS OF TWO DIFFERENT PERIODS.

CHORUS. Look at her big foot! Oh, what a waist!--and what a ridiculous

little head!--and _no_ chignon! She’s no lady! Oh, what a fright!

(Period 1869.)]

PYRAMUS AND THISBE

A TRAGIC BALLAD

I sing not now in joyous strain,

To suit these mirthful pages;

Mine is a tale of love and pain,

Black blood and by-gone ages.

Some people’s wit is small indeed--

But smaller still must his be,

Who’s never had the luck to read

Of Pyramus and Thisbe.

I do not write for such a dunce,

My task would be in vain;

Let those who’ve blubbered at it once,

Now read, and weep again.

Of all the beauties of the East,

Fair Thisbe was the star,

And Nature gave her--last not least--

A very cross mamma.

Next door there lived a “nice young man,”

One Pyramus by name;

And laughing Cupid soon began

To kindle up the flame.

Then came soft words and softer sighs,

And “hearts for ever true,”

And radiant eyes, like summer skies,

And little _billets-doux_.

Next Thisbe ’d ask to go and walk,

Upon some sly pretence,

And then they’d meet alone, and talk

Across the garden-fence.

At last her mother caught her out--

And scarlet grew her forehead.

“My stars! miss, what are you about?

Good gracious me, how horrid!”

She locked her up--our hero, too,

Was lectured by his father:

“Do that again, sir! just you do!

And won’t I whop you--rather!”

He begged and prayed: the governor

Still gave that answer gruff--

“Lord; what’s the good of lovin’ her?

A boy like you, sir! stuff!

“Come, get along! what’s all this fuss?

Let’s have no more, sir, pray!”

With broken heart poor Pyramus

Turn’d in despair away.

He moped all day, and talked to none,

Through dim and lone woods wending;

Men cried, “If this be lover’s fun,

Our hearts are worth defending!”

When day was done, the night again

Brought visions of his fairy:

Alas! how vain the tender pain,

“_In statu pupillari_.”

He cried, “Oh this is hard, indeed--

I mayn’t caress my love, nor

With blameless word win blameless meed--

O cruel, cruel guv’nor!”

I said, you know, some time ago,

Their houses stood contiguous;

Not _dos-à-dos_, but in a row--

I hate to be ambiguous.

Well, little Love, who’s up to snuff,

In pitying mood, one day,

Proposed a plan; and sure enough

They tried, and found it pay.

He whispered in the ear of each,

“=Seek out some little hole in

Your wall, through which your lover’s speech

May echo most consoling=.”

They searched above, they searched below,

To find affection’s keyhole;

Till--just when all appear’d “no go,”

They found a little wee hole.

[Illustration]

A rotten brick had come in two--

They saw the cranny--nay, more.

They saw their love by peeping through,

Ah! “_Quid non sentit amor?_”

They poked the useless brick away

By digging out the mortar;

And there they passed the livelong day

In whispers and “soft sawder.”

Then, Thisbe ’d cry, “Oh dear, oh dear,

My eyes are full of dust, love;

You must come round and kiss me here,

Indeed, indeed, you must, love.”

And then, poor Pyramus would say,

“God bless me, how can this be?

I’ve kissed a dirty lump of clay,

And not my pretty Thisbe!

“Bad wall, bad wall! thy chink is small,

Thy big stones almost hide her:

Why leave the little hole at all

Unless a little wider?

“O will you meet me quite alone

To-morrow night, my dear,

Beyond brass-gated Babylon

Where walls can’t interfere.

“Let’s meet by nine, at Ninus’ tomb,

Under the mulberry-tree,

The moon that lights the sunless gloom

Shall light my love to me.”

’Tis night--the moon has flung her beam

Far down the glowing wave,

Where rolls Euphrates’ silent stream

Fast by the monarch’s grave:--

The night-wind bids the forest groan

And leafy branches reel;--

But, Lord! Who’s this--and all alone--

In such a _déshabille_.

’Tis Thisbe! hear it, wise mammas,

The lesson’s told concisely,--

Don’t bother Love by bolts and bars,

Or you’ll be diddled nicely!

[Illustration]

For though her mother--cross old cat--

Had safely locked her in,

_She_ knew a trick worth two of that,

And didn’t care a pin.

She soon escaped--no matter how--

And ere the bell tolled nine,

Sat trembling where the forest bough

Danced in the pale moonshine.

[Illustration: “INGENUAS DIDICISSE,” AND SO ON.

URBANE FOREIGNER. The--ah--contemplation of these--ah--relics of ancient

art in the galleries of Europe, must be most int’r’sting to

the--ah--educated American!

AMERICAN TOURIST. Wa’al, don’t seem to care much for these _stone gals_,

somehow, stranger!]

She sat and watched the waters roll,

And more impatient grew:--

At last she heard a horrid growl,--

“Oh, dear, what shall I do?”

“Speak, Pyramus! Where are you! Oh,

I hear that growl again!

How can you leave your Thisbe so?

You must--you must be slain!”

[Illustration]

She’d hardly done, when trotting by,

A lion fresh from slaughter,

With black blood drenched, and savage eye,

Came from the woods to water.

Poor Thisbe shuddered at the sight,

Not relishing his “ivory”;

“Besides,--especially to-night--

It’s very hard to die--very!

“I’ll run and hide behind an oak,

My stars! just hear him swallow;

I’d better first throw off my cloak,

I wonder if he’ll follow!”

The lion on a hawthorn spray

Descried the mantle dangling,

She’d washed it out that very day,

He stopped--and did the mangling.

[Illustration]

But ah! the brute was hardly gone

When Pyramus drew near--

“My Thisbe! Where’s my love--my own--

Good gracious me! what’s here?

“Oh, Thisbe, dearest, are you dead;

Can this orn robe say true?

All pawed and clawed and bloody red,--

My love, I’ll follow you!”

Then out he drew his shining blade,

“Grim Death--a friend art thou--

My folly’s slain earth’s fairest maid!

I’ll not survive--so now!”

With that, he gave a deadly dig,

Another, and one more,

Then kicked and hollo’d like a pig--

And his short life was o’er.

Poor Thisbe! fancy how she cried

To find her lover struck;--

“Great Gods! I’ll slumber by his side,

The darling, darling duck!”

She snatched the weapon from the wound,

And bared her snowy breast;

Once gazed in maddening grief around,

And then--we know the rest!

_Punch_, 1844.

[Illustration: AT THE GREAT EXHIBITION OF 1861.

SARAH JANE. Lawks! Why it’s hexact like our Hemmer!]

[Illustration: POPULAR HISTORY.

GUIDE. That heffigy of them two halabaster habbots in ’elmets hare from

a tomb in the Habby of St. Holive’s, founded by ’Enery the fust Tooder,

fort’n ’undred ’n heighty-seven. Their mortal remains was haxumed by

horder hof the R’yal Hantiquarian Serciety seventin heighty-three; their

bodies was found himbammed, and henwelluped in jules!

[_Procession moves on._]

[Illustration: CAPITAL PUNISHMENT!

“MOTHER” (_at South Kensington_). Executed in ---- Tut-t-t-t! Lauk a

mussy, ’Liza! what did them foreigners want to ’ang that poor

innocent-lookin’ young creetur’ for!!?]

* * * * *

A student, showing the Museum at Oxford to a party, produced, among many

other curiosities, a rusty sword. “This,” said he, “is the sword with

which Balaam was going to kill his ass.” One of the company observed

that he thought Balaam had no sword, but only wished for one. “You are

right,” replied the student, “and this is the very sword he wished

for.”

[Illustration: A FLAGRANT ATTEMPT.

Jones prepares a little surprise for his Mary Ann, and has his

equestrian portrait taken. He remarks, “’Ang it, you know, if I do have

my carte done, I don’t see why I shouldn’t ’ave my ’orse!”]

[Illustration: FUNNY FILMS

Humours of

Photography.

PHOTOGRAPHER’S TOUT. ’Ave yer photograph took, my lord?

WAG. No, we’re too ugly.

PHOTOGRAPHER’S TOUT. Many a true word spoke in jest, mates.]

[Illustration]

PHOTOGRAPHIC FAILURES

One of the advantages or disadvantages, as the case may be, of many

photographic portraits, is, that they fade away by degrees, and thus

keep pace with those fleeting impressions or feelings under which it is

sometimes usual for one to ask another for his or her miniature. It may

be a strong recommendation of cheap photography, that its pictures will

last as long as the ordinary run of small affections, and, indeed, a

superior specimen of the art may be warranted to retain its outline

throughout a flirtation of an entire month’s durability. We had our own

portrait taken by the cheap process a short time ago, when we received

the above copy of the state of the portrait through a period of an

entire fortnight.

The three specimens shown above represent our portrait when recently

done; the same after it had been in existence a week, and the same after

the expiration of an entire fortnight. The following pathetic ballad was

appended to the specimens which we have given above:--

Behold thy portrait!--day by day,

I’ve seen its features die;

First the moustachios go away,

Then off the whiskers fly.

That nose I loved to gaze upon,

That bold and manly brow,

Are vanish’d, fled, completely gone--

Alas! where are they now?

[Illustration: BOBBY’S CAMERA: _S^{O}ME·EFFECTS·HE·GOT·WITH·IT_.]

Thy hair, which once was black and bright,

Much worse than grey has grown;

Indeed, I scarce can say ’tis white,

For ’t has completely flown.

Those speaking eyes, which made me trust

In all you used to vow,

Are like two little specks of dust--

Alas! where are they now?

[Illustration: INTERESTING GROUP POSED FOR A PHOTOGRAPH.--I.

By a Friend of the Family.]

[Illustration: INTERESTING GROUP POSED FOR A PHOTOGRAPH.--II.

The Valuable Result.]

But, ah!--thy portrait of thy love

Is but a type, no doubt,

And serves its fickleness to prove,

For soon ’tis all wiped out.

Thy hair, thy whiskers, and thine eyes,

Moustachios, manly brow,

Have vanished as affection flies--

Alas!--where is it now?

_Punch_, 1847.

[Illustration: HAPPY THOUGHT!]

[Illustration: HAPPY THOUGHT!

Ingenious Jones sits for his portrait to a peripatetic photographer, and

cunningly places himself exactly between the apparatus and the

unconscious Oriana, whom he worships at a respectful distance, and whose

likeness he would fain possess.

[_On this page the reader will

find, all framed and glazed, for

3s. 6d. complete, Ingenious

Jones’s Happy Thought’s result._]

[Illustration: PLEASANT FOR SIMPKINS!

PHOTOGRAPHER (_to Mr. Simpkins_). Keep your head steady, please, sir,

and look in the direction of those young ladies. Steady now, sir! Don’t

wink, sir!

MRS. S. (_by a look that Mr. S. quite understood_). Just let me see him

wink!!]

[Illustration: UNANSWERABLE.

OLD GIRL. Oh, I’ve brought back these cartes of mine, Mr. Kammerer. My

friends are very dissatisfied. They----

PHOTOGRAPHER. Dear me, mum, I’m extremely sorry; I thought the portrait

very----

OLD GIRL. Oh! impossible; it’s hideous!]

[Illustration: CAN THE CAMERA LIE?

GEORGINA (_in riding habit_). Well dear! I declare it’s the very image

of you! I _never_!

SARAH JANE (_who insists upon seeing the plate_). Like me? for goodness’

sake don’t be ridiculous, Georgina. I think it’s perfectly absurd! Why,

it has given me a stupid little turn-up nose, and a mouth that’s

absolutely enormous!]

[Illustration: THE ARTISTIC (!) STUDIO.

_A Stereoscopic Scene from Fashionable Life in 1857._

“_Love, Pride, Revenge._” The group represents a young minstrel of

humble origin, declaring his passion to a lady of noble parentage. Her

haughty brother, as may be seen from his menacing attitude, is about to

avenge the insult offered to his family!]

THE PHOTOGRAPHS

[Illustration]

To-day I was let sit up, tucked up in a quilt in a arm-chare. I soon

got tired o’ that, so I ast Betty to get me a glass o’ ice-water to

squench my thirst, an’ when she was gone I cut an’ run, an’ went into

Susan’s room to look at all them fotografs of nice young men she’s got

there in a drawer.

The girls was all down in the parlour, ’cos Miss Watson had come to

call. Betty she came a huntin’ me, but I hid in the closet behind a

old hoop-skirt. I come out when she went away, and had a real good

time. Some o’ them fotografs was written on the back, like this:

“Conseated fop!” “Oh, ain’t he sweet?” “He ast me, but I wouldn’t have

him.” “A perfect darling!” “What a mouth!” “Portrait of a donkey!”

I kep about two dozen o’ them I knew, to have some fun when I got

well. I shut the drawer so Sue wouldn’t notice they was took. I felt

as if I could not bare to go back to that nasty room, I was so tired

of it, an’ I thought I’d pass my time a playing I was a young lady. I

found a lot o’ little curls in the buro, wich I stuck on all around my

forehead with a bottle of mewsiledge, and then I seen some red stuff

on a sawcer, wich I rubbed onto my cheaks. When I was all fixed up I

slid down the bannisters plump against Miss Watson, wot was sayin’

good-bye to my sisters. Such a hollerin’ as they made!

[Illustration: “Have you ever been photographed, Uncle?”

“Yes, Tommy.”

“What for?”]

[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF A DISTINGUISHED PHOTOGRAPHER,

Who has just succeeded in focussing a view to his complete

satisfaction.]

Miss Watson she turned me to the light, an’ sez she, as sweet as pie:

“Where did you get them pretty red cheeks, Geordie?”

Susan she made a sign, but I didn’t know it.

“I found some red stuff in Sue’s drawer,” sez I, and she smiled kind

o’ hateful, and said:

“Oh!”

My sister says she is an awful gossip, which will tell all over town

that they paint, wich they don’t, ’cause that sawcer was gust to make

roses on card-bord, wich is all right.

Sue was so mad she boxed my ears.

“Aha, missy!” sez I to myself, “you don’t guess about them fotografs

wot I took out o’ your drawer!”

Some folks think little boys’ ears are made on purpose to be boxed--my

sisters do. If they knew what dark and desperate thoughts come into

little boys’ minds, they’d be more careful--it riles ’em up like

pokin’ sticks into a mud puddel.

[Illustration: A PHOTOGRAPHIC PICTURE. (1853.)

OLD LADY (_who is not used to these new-fangled notions_). Oh, sir!

please, sir! don’t, sir! Don’t for goodness’ sake fire; sir!]

I laid low--but beware to-morrow!

They let me come down to breakfast this mornin’.

I’ve got those pictures all in my pockets, you bet your life.

“Wot makes your pockets stick out so?” ast Lily, when I was a waiting

a chance to slip out unbeknone.

“Oh, things,” sez I, an’ she laughed.

“I thought mebbe you’d got your books and cloathes packed up in ’em,”

sez she, “to run away an’ be a Injun warryor.”

I didn’t let on anything, but ansered her:

“I’ll just go out in the backyard an’ play a spell.”

Well, I got to town, an’ had a lot of fun. I called on’ all the

aboriginals of them fotografs.

“Hello, Georgie! Well agen?” said the first feller I stopped to see.

Oh, my! when I get big enuff I’ll hope my mustaches won’t be waxed

like his’n! He’s in a store, an’ I got him to give me a nice cravat,

an’ he ast me “Was my sisters well?” so I fished out his fotograf, and

gave it to him.

It was the one that had “Conseated Fop!” writ on the back. The girls

had drawed his mustaches out twict as long with a pencil, an’ made him

smile all acrost his face. He got as red as fire, an’ then he skowled

at me:

“Who did that, you little rascal!”

“I should say the spirits did it,” I said, as onest as a owl, an’ I

went away quick cause he looked mad.

The nex plaice I come to was a grocery store, where a nuther young man

lived. He had red hair an’ freckles, but he seemed to think hisself a

beauty. I said:

“Hello, Peters!”

He said:

“The same yourself, Master George. Do you like raisins? Help

yourself.”

Boys wot has three pretty sisters allers does get treted well, I

notiss. I took a big hanful of raisins an’ sot on the counter eating

’em, till all at oncest, as if I jest thought of it, I took out his

fotograf an’ squinted at it, an sez:

“I do declare it looks like you.”

“Let me see it,” sez he.

I wouldn’t for a long time, then I gave it to him. The girls had made

freckles all over it. This was the one they wrote on its back, “He

asked me, but I wouldn’t have him.” They’d painted his hair as red as

a rooster’s comb. He got quite pale when he seen it clost.

[Illustration: ENCOURAGEMENT OF ART.

FIRST CURLED AND POWDERED DARLING (_to photographer_). You’d better take

pains with these ’ere _carte de visites_, as they’ll be a good deal

shown about.

SECOND CURLED AND POWDERED DARLING (_on the sofa_). Yes--pertiklerly in

the hupper suckles. Get you customers, you know.]

“It’s a burning shame,” sez I, “for them young ladies to make fun of

their bows.”

“Clear out,” sez Peters.

I grabbed a nuther bunch o’ raisins an’ quietly disappeared. I tell

you he was rathy!

Mister Courtenay he was a lawyer, he’s got a offis on the square by

the cort-house. I knew him very well, ’cause he comes to our house

offen. He’s a awful queer-lookin’ chap, an’ so stuck up you’d think he

was tryin’ to see if the moon was made o’ green cheese, like folks sez

it is, the way he keeps it in the air. He’s got a depe, depe voice way

down in his boots. My harte beat wen I got in there, I was that

fritened; but I was bound to see the fun out, so I ast him:

“Is the What is It on exabishun to-day?”

“Wot do you mean?” sez he, a lookin’ down on me.

“Sue said if I would come to Mister Courtenay’s offis I would see wot

this is the picture of,” sez I, givin’ him his own fotograf inskribed,

“The Wonderful What is It.”

It’s awful funny to see their faces wen they look at their own cards.

In about a minit he up with his foot, wich I dodged just in time. I

herd him muttering suthin’ ’bout “suing for scandal.” I think myself I

oughter arrest her for ’salt an’ battery, boxing my ears. I wisht he

would sue Sue, ’twould serve her right.

I’ll not get to bed fore midnight if I write enny more. I’m yawning

now like a dying fish. So, farewell my diry till the next time. I give

them cards all back fore dinner-time. There’ll be a row, I expect.

I’ve laughed myself almost to fits a thinkin’ of the feller wot I give

“The Portrait of a Donkey” to. He looked so cress fallen. I do

believe he cried. They were teazin’ ma to let ’em give a party nex’

week wen I got home to dinner. I don’t believe one of them young

gentlemen will come to it; the girls have give ’em all away. I don’t

care tuppence. Wot for do they take such libertys with my ears if they

want me to be good to ’em.

P.S.--I bet their left ears are burning wuss’n ever mine did!

[Illustration: ARTIST! (_photographic_). You’ve rather a florid

complexion, sir, but (_producing a flour dredger, to the old gentleman’s

horror_) if you’ll take a seat, we’ll obviate that immediately.]

[Illustration: ARTFUL!

Dodge of little Sperks, showing how parties below the middle height, by

the use of miniature background furniture, may gain a more imposing

stature in the _carte de visite_.]

[Illustration: SUBJECT FOR A PICTURE.

PHOTOGRAPHER. Now, sir! ’ave yer cart de visit done?]

[Illustration: PHOTOGRAPHIC BEAUTIES.

“I say, mister, here’s me and my mate wants our fotergruffs took; and

mind, we wants ’em ’ansom, cos they’re to give to two ladies.”]

_WANDERING MINSTRELS_

[Illustration: CHRISTMAS WAITS.]

MRS. BROWN AND THE GERMAN BAND

Oh, I don’t think as I ever did ’ave sich a ’ead-ache as that arter

we’d been to ’Ampton Court, as I do believe a-settin’ on the grass ’ad

struck to me, and cold weal and ’am pie and cowcumber is wittles as

along with lobster salad and red currant tart you did ought to be

cautious ’ow you takes, and not ’urry thro’ it with all that

confusion, and you don’t know what you are a-takin’. And young ’Awkins

as were attentive to me kep’ a-fillin’ up my plate and glass every

time as I turned my ’ead away a minit, as ’ave know’d ’im from a

child, and what with the confusion at the train a-gettin’ back, I were

that dizzy as I got into the wrong cab, as thro’ a mistake drove me

werry near to Nottin’-’ill afore I could make the stupid feller

understand as I wanted South Lambeth, and then to stand me out as I

said Bayswater.

It was past one in the mornin’ when I got ’ome, and ’ad to knock Brown

up, as were that savage, and all his own fault thro’ not a-lookin’

arter me at the Waterloo Station, thro’ ’avin’ got out at Wauxall, as

is certingly nearest, thro’ bein’ not five minits from our door, yet

’ow was I to know as we’d got parted a-gettin’ into the train, and me

that dead beat as to fall asleep the werry moment as I were in the

train, and never opened my eyes till the man come for the ticket, and

a nice trouble I ’ad to find mine and every one in the carriage

a-goin’ on at me as is their larkin’ ways of a Sunday night.

Well, as I said afore never did I ’ave sich a ’eadache, as were

downright splittin’, and openin’ and a-shettin’ jest like water-works.

I ’adn’t took no dinner, so was a-thinkin’ as I’d ’ave a early cup of

tea, and was a-settin’ quiet in my front parlour with the blinds

drawed down, a-thinkin’ as I might get a nap and be fresh for my tea.

[Illustration: THE DIVISION OF LABOUR.

How would it be if they changed instruments?]

I’d put my feet up on the sofy, as isn’t a thing as I do one time in a

thousand, and was a-droppin’ off, when of all the ’owlin’, gruntin’

and squeakin’ noises as ever you ’eard it broke out in our street. I

says, “they must be lunatics broke loose, a-makin’ free with them

hinstruments, as wouldn’t never make that noise left to theirselves or

used proper.”

I gets up and goes to the winder, and I see about four of them German

boys a-playin’ away on trombones, like mad, and one on ’em a-tryin’

our gate.

So I knocks at the winder, and shakes my ’ead at ’im, he opens the

gate and comes in up to the winder as I opens, and says, “Go along. I

don’t want no more of your noise.”

He goes on with ’is gibberish rubbish, and I only says to ’im, “Get

out!” and shets down the winder.

Well, them young waggerbones kep’ on a-blowin’ and ’owlin’, like any

one in tortures till I couldn’t stand it no longer, so I opens the

winder ag’in, and ’olds up a jug of water, as the gal ’ad brought me

up for the plants, a-making believe to throw it over ’em, when one of

them ’Opwoods as lives next door, comes out and tells ’em to go on

playin’ and give ’em money.

The row as they kicked up, then, a-blowin’ right at me with them big

’orns of theirn did so aggravate me that I took and chucked all the

water slap among ’em, and if one of them young wretches didn’t pick up

a big stone and shiver a pane of glass in my front parlour in a

jiffey.

[Illustration: CULTURE FOR THE MILLION; OR, SOCIETY AS IT MAY BE.

NEW CHAMBER OF HORRORS AT MADAME TUSSAUD’S. (_The right man in the right

place._) Don’t be afraid, you little goose! it’s only wax-work! Why, _I_

recollect when people like that were allowed to go loose about the

streets!]

I couldn’t stand that, so ketches up the fust thing as come to, and as

proved to be the ’arth broom as ’angs with the kittle ’older, and out

of the ’ouse I rushes.

Well, them boys took to their ’eels, when they see me comin’ out of

the door, and run a little way, and then stopped and picked up stones

and sent a reg’lar wolley at me.

I ducked my ’ead in course, as they all went over right into old

’Opwood’s Green-’ouse, as he jest ’ad put up ag’in ’is parlour.

I never ’eard sich a crash, nor yet sich a roar as old ’Opwood give

like demented lions, and out he come on the doorstep, jest as them

boys sent a second wolley of stones, and one ketched ’im slap in the

mouth, and down he went like a dead un, and them young scoundrels was

off like the dust afore the wind as the sayin’ is.

If all them ’Opwoods didn’t come out on the doorstep, and give me

their Billinsgate, for the old feller’s got two reg’lar brimstones of

daughters, besides ’is old wife as is a reg’lar old dragon of Wantage.

They all yells at me “’ow dare you set them boys on to destroy our

property.”

I says, “Me set the boys on? I was a-drivin’ them away with their

beastly noise a-distractin’ any one, as you’ve been encouragin’.”

“They was playin’ beautiful,” says one of them Miss ’Opwoods, “my

favourite Waltz.”

I says, “So I should think jest the music fit for you to dance to,”

for she’s forty-five, and got a ’ump back, and as ugly as she’s

wicious.

[Illustration: NOTHING LIKE ADVERTISING YOURSELF.]

“Oh, you old cat,” she says to me, a-gnashin’ ’er teeth, “’ow I should

like to tear your old wig off.”

I says, “No doubt, for I’m sure you wants one bad enough.”

“Come in Julia,” says the old mother. “Don’t talk to that low old

woman.”

“Yes,” I says, “Go in Julia, and ’elp your ma skin the cat.”

Down the steps come the old woman, and says, “You audacious falsehood;

I’ll punish you.”

I’d got to my gate by that time. So I says to ’er, “Stand off you wile

filthy old wretch, don’t dare cross my doorstep!” and ’olds up the

’arth broom at ’er.

Her two daughters, a-seein’ me threatenin’ ’er come up, and says, “Ma,

dear, come in.”

“Yes,” I says, “Ma dear, do, or else the police may come by, and you

may get give in charge ag’in as you was the week afore last,” for the

old man ’ad been ’ad up for cruelty to animals twice.

They was all a-goin’ to fly out when a bobby come round the corner,

and as soon as they see ’im, they made faces at me, and was a-goin’

off.

I says, “Oh, pray don’t ’urry, here is the police.”

I says to the perliceman, “’Ave you ’ad any one up lately hereabouts

for cruelty to animals”; and in they goes and bangs their doors; and

well they might, for that wicked old wretch had been destroyin’ of

cats brutally, and they’d fined ’im for it; and I do believe as the

old woman did use to skin cats, for she wore a fur tippet in the

winter as was cats’ skins all over.

But law, ’ow singler things do come ’ome to parties sometimes, to be

sure; for it wasn’t but the next Sunday evenin’ arter, as I were alone

in the ’ouse, and went out in the front jest to look at some stocks as

Brown ’ad planted the night afore, when I thought as I ’eard groans

from next door, as is ’Opwood’s.

[Illustration: SKETCH FROM A STUDY WINDOW.]

I listens, and says to myself, “That’s some one in pain or I’m a

Dutchman.” So I goes closer to their wall and ’ears them groans and

smells burnin’.

So knowin’ as somethink were wrong I ’urries to their door and knocks,

but no one a-comin’, I says, “They’re all gone out,” and was a-goin’

away, for I didn’t ’ear no more groans, but I smelt the burnin’; so I

says, “No doubt I shall only get insults for my pains, but I’ll try

and go in and see what’s amiss.” So I makes my way round to their back

door, as were only on the latch, and in I goes, and the smell of

burnin’ was downright sickenin’; I goes straight into the front

kitchen, and there was old ’Opwood a-layin’ in the fender a-roastin’

as ’ad fell out of ’is chair in a fit.

I ’auls ’im up, and never did see sich a sight as one side of ’is face

and all ’is neck and shoulder. The boy jest then come round with the

eight o’clock beer, so I ’ollers to ’im to run for a doctor, and I got

’old ’Opwood some’ow into ’is chair, as was quite insensible.

As luck would ’ave it, the doctor jest round the corner were at ’ome,

and come at once, and we got the old man’s burns dressed, as I

considers there’s nothink finer than whitin’, as the doctor agreed to.

If you’d seen that old Mother ’Opwood’s face and ’er daughters, when

they come in jest on ten and found me a-lookin’ arter that old man, as

we’d got up on to a sofy in the front parlour.

She begun to scream and holler at fust, and then said as I’d been and

done it.

I wasn’t the least put out with ’er, but only says to ’er daughters,

“Keep ’er quiet”; which they did by draggin’ on ’er up-stairs, where

they kep’ ’er, and I must say, as they spoke werry ’andsome to me, as

stopped along with the old man till jest on twelve.

I didn’t think as the old man would ’ave lived thro’ it, but he did,

and ’ad his senses back, and able for to talk by the end of the week,

and told us as he remembered a-pitchin’ forard ag’in the bars a-tryin’

to get a light for ’is pipe.

He never will be the same man as he were, but it’s been a lesson to

’im and to them, too, not to leave him alone, nor yet to be that

insultin’ to a neighbour as they have been to me, a-doin’ everythink

to annoy me, and turnin’ me into every redicule as the ’uman ’art can

think on.

But they’ll never encourage them orgins and bands as they did use to,

and ’ave them inside their gardin’ to play when I’d sent them away,

and no doubt we should get on better for the future to come, but I’m

glad as we’re a-goin’ to move away, and all as I wants is to part

friends, for as to livin’ friendly next door to them I never could.

_Fun_, 1868.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

STREET MUSICIANS

By OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

You’re sitting on your window seat

Beneath a cloudless moon;

You hear a sound that seems to wear

The semblance of a tune,

As if a broken fife should strive

To drown a cracked bassoon.

And nearer, nearer still, the tide

Of music seems to come,

There’s something like a human voice

And something like a drum;

You sit in speechless agony,

Until your ear is numb.

Poor “Home, Sweet Home” would seem to be

A very dismal place;

Your “Auld Acquaintance,” all at once,

Is altered in the face;

Their discords sting thro’ Burns and Moore,

Like hedgehogs dressed in lace.

You think they are crusaders sent

From some infernal clime,

To pluck the eyes of Sentiment

And dock the tail of Rhyme,

To crack the voice of Melody

And break the legs of Time.

But, hark! the air again is still,

The music all is ground,

And silence like a poultice comes

To heal the blows of sound;

It cannot be--it is, it is--

A hat is going round!

No! pay the dentist when he leaves

A fracture in your jaw,

And pay the owner of the bear

That stunned you with his paw,

And buy the lobster that has had

Your knuckles in his claw.

But if you are a portly man,

Put on your fiercest frown,

And talk about a constable

To turn them out of town;

Then close your sentence with an oath,

Then shut the window down!

And if you are a slender man,

Not big enough for that,

Or if you cannot make a speech

Because you are a flat,

Go very quietly and drop

A button in the hat!

[Illustration: THROUGH THE OPERA GLASSES

THE OPERA.

BOX-KEEPER. Stalls 216 and 217. This way, ma’am; last row, ma’am.

Won’t you like a book, ma’am?]

THE BOHEMIAN GIRL

ADAPTED TO THE MEANEST CAPACITY

Miss Rainforth, one day

Having gone out to play,

(Then a very young lady) was hurried,

By a shocking fierce man,

From a vagabond clan,

Away to the green-room, quite flurried!

This abduction, so free,

Was lamented in D,

With a pathos quite like Catalani,

By her father, Arnheim,

Who sung out in slow time;

(Count Arnheim was play’d by Borrani).

But, lo! after act one,

Without help of the “sun,”

Or (as Wordsworth has said) of the “shower,”

This damsel so nice,

With a very sweet voice,

Grew twelve inches in less than an hour!

And, having now seen,

Summers full seventeen,

Her heart could not wholly withstand

The very soft “sawder”

Of a dashing marauder

Named Harrison--one of the band.

So the maid, in reply,

After heaving a sigh,

Sang a song--now the darling of Fame,

Which, if not quite grammatical,

Was very poetical,

That Harrison “lov’d her the same.”

As we’ve all heard a few

Of the stories so new

About gipsies and children, I ween,

I need scarcely relate,

How a fortunate fate

Gave Borrani again his Arline.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Suffice it to say,

In a summary way,

That a chain, round her neck which she wore,

By a stern new policeman,

Accustomed to seize men,

Was carried a justice before:

That she knew not the theft;

That the chain was a gift

From her supposititious mamma;

And this damsel so nice,

(With a very sweet voice)

In the magistrate found her papa!

We have then, a third act;

A most curious fact;

Which none understood, till they knew

The author had thought,

That in justice he ought

A _moral_ to add to the two.

So a lesson he gave

(This poet so grave,)

To singers and men; and the fall

Of Miss Betts, at the end,

By the hand of a friend,

Was felt as the moral by all.

_Punch_, 1844.

[Illustration]

“TURNED OUT”

At a Cosmopolitan Club they were discussing the relative position of

various countries as musical centres. Germany seemed to have the most

votaries, much to the evident displeasure of one excitable Italian.

“Italy is turning out the most musicians, and has always turned out the

most,” he cried.

“Ach Gott!” exclaimed one of the Germans. “Can you blame her?”

[Illustration: WHAT INDEED?

DOOR-KEEPER. Beg your pardon, sir--but you must, indeed, sir, be in full

dress!

SNOB (_excited_). Full dress!! Why, what do yer call this?]

[Illustration: “FRENCH WITHOUT A MASTER.”

MATRON IN STALLS (_reads from programme_). “Overture to L’Ongfong

Prod-eeg.” What does that mean? The prodigious child, eh?

ACCOMPLISHED DAUGHTER (_shocked_). Mamma, dear! No--“L’Enfant

Prodigue”--it means the infant prodigy!!]

[Illustration]

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE OPERA

BY W. M. THACKERAY.

I’ve known a god on clouds of gauze

With patience hear a people’s prayer,

And, bending to the pit’s applause,

Wait while the priest repeats the air.

I’ve seen a black-wigg’d Jove hurl down

A thunderbolt along a wire,

To burn some distant canvas town,

Which--how vexatious!--won’t catch fire.

I’ve known a tyrant doom a maid

(With trills and _roulades_ many a score)

To instant death. She, sore afraid,

Sings; and the audience cries encore.

I’ve seen two warriors in a rage

Draw glist’ning swords, and--awful sight!--

Meet face to face upon the stage

To sing a song, but not to fight!

I’ve heard a king exclaim “To arms”

Some twenty times, yet still remain;

I’ve known his army ’midst alarms,

Help by a bass their monarch’s strain.

I’ve known a hero wounded sore

With well-tuned voice his foes defy;

And warbling stoutly on the floor,

With the last flourish fall and die.

I’ve seen a mermaid dress’d in blue;

I’ve seen a Cupid burn a wing;

I’ve known a Neptune lose a shoe;

I’ve heard a guilty spectre sing.

I’ve seen, spectators of a dance,

Two Brahmins, Mahomet, the Cid,

Four Pagan kings, four knights of France,

Jove and the Muses--scene Madrid.

_Punch_, 1843.

[Illustration: WE DON’T SING ENOUGH.

Sailors sing at their work. Why don’t clerks, lawyers, doctors, brokers,

and shopkeepers? It would add to the variety of life.]

[Illustration: THE HIGH NOTE.]

[Illustration: THE LOW NOTE.]

A WOMAN’S THOUGHTS ABOUT WOMEN

I think Miss Juliet in the play

A forward little minx

(And Mrs. Grundy likes to say

What Mrs. Grundy thinks).

Her conduct with R. Montague

Seems perfectly absurd,

Such bold and brazen language, too,

I think I never heard.

I think Othello led a tame

And wretched kind of life,

With Desdemona What’s-her-name--

His namby-pamby wife.

To run away--at such an age--

And with a negro, too!

Such conduct even on the stage,

I think I never knew.

I think that, as to Beatrice,

Her husband was a flat

For looking for a life of peace

With such a wife as _that_.

Her conduct wasn’t over strict

For all her length of jaw;

And such a muff as Benedict

I think I never saw.

I think, when Portia’s lovers came

And played at pitch and toss,

The gentleman who won that dame

Contrived to gain a loss.

I think Emilia was a shrew,

And Rosalind ill-bred;

(But “As you Like It,” _entre nous_,

I think I never read).

I think Macbeth was led astray

By wicked Lady M.

And those three witches. By the way,

I don’t think much of _them_.

I think Ophelia--that’s a fact--

The best of all the set;

But anybody quite so crack’d

I think I never met.

_Fun_, 1865.

[Illustration: BROWN (_thinking of her age_). Perfect voice that girl

has--she’s only twenty-two.

JONES (_thinking otherwise_). Twenty-two what--stone?]

[Illustration: CULTURE FOR THE MILLION; OR, SOCIETY AS IT MAY BE.

HIGH ART BELOW STAIRS.--COOK. Sh--sh--! _Moderato_, Susan! _Affettuoso_,

Jim! _Ben marcato il basso_, Mr. Raffles! _Bravi tutti! Da capo!_]

[Illustration: GENTLE REBUKE.

OLD GENTLEMAN. How charmingly that young lady sings! Pray, who composed

the beautiful song she has just favoured us with?

LADY OF THE HOUSE. Oh, it is by Mendelssohn.

OLD GENTLEMAN. Ah! One of his famous “Songs without Words,” I suppose.

(MORAL.--_Young ladies, when you sing, pronounce your words carefully,

and then you will not expose unmusical old gentlemen to making such a

ridiculous mistake as the above._)]

THE ONION GIRL

(AFTER TENNYSON’S “LADY OF SHALOTTE.”)

PART I.

On either side of Market-street

Small stalls of vegetables meet

Domestic eyes; and voices sweet

And voices hoarse their hearing greet

With cries of “Buy my fine shalots!”

And up and down the million goes;

Gazing where, in varied rows,

Green stuff lies, and each nose knows

The odour of shalots.

Widows cheapen, urchins chatter,

Little vagrants make much clatter;

Vulgar boys cry, “_Who’s your hatter?_”

And this time, the night of Satur-

Day’s the joy of all the sots.

Bright blue eyes, lips like the cherry,

Rosy cheeks, that ringlets bury,

Had an Irish girl, from Derry,

A girl who sold shalots!

To the market, peas and beans

Heavy lumbering machines

Bring thrice a week, also greens;

And ’tis prime fun to watch the scenes

At the biddings for the lots.

But who hath seen _her_ buy her stock

Of onions, or white-headed broc-

Oli, before four of the clock,

That girl who sells shalots?

Only peelers, walking early

(One there is a great, big, burly

Fellow, who is always surly,

And wouldn’t even let a cur lie

Down in shelter’d corner spots);

Or, by the dawn, some loose young city

Clerk, home reeling, hears the ditty

She oft sings--says “_’Tis that pretty

Girl who sells shalots!_”

THE ONION GIRL

PART II.

(_A change comes o’er the spirit of the O.G._)

Now she flaunts by night or day,

In gorgeous dress and ribbons gay:

Conscience often whispers “nay!”

But love of finery cries “_yea_.”

Calling conscience “horrid rot!”

She knows not what the end may be,

And so she hath a “jolly spree,”

But little other care hath she--

That girl who sold shalot!

And now, before a mirror clear,

She learns each wily glance and leer;

Then puts an earring in each ear,

And donning some fast, flashy gear,

Starts for some den that London blots.

There the vicious eddy whirls;

And there is vice in gold and pearls;

And there are jewelled, wretched girls,

Who’d scorn to sell shalots!

Sometimes a troop of swells--drunk--mad

(Who’d call a sober man a cad)--

Bring in a very verdant lad,

And teach him everything that’s bad,

And stain his soul with cank’ring spots.

And there she sits, with eyes so blue,

Loudly and lightly chatted to;

Oh! she was brighter, _happier too_,

When she cried, “Fine shalots!”

For she must suffer many slights--

May never more know home’s delights--

Can scarcely claim a woman’s rights;

Must writhe beneath the scorn that blights

Such cheerless, weary, dreary lots;

And dies, at last, by some road-side;

Or, urged by sin’s despairing pride,

_She sinks beneath the murky tide--

That girl who sold shalots!_

_Fun_, 1864.

[Illustration]

END OF VOLUME VIII.

Butler & Tanner, Frome and London.

Transcription of texts inside illustrations

Page 24.

I cannot tell, what you and other men

Think of this life; but, for my single self,

I had as lief not be, as live to be

In ~awe~ of such a ~thing~ as I myself.

Page 25.

OWING TO A SPRAINED ANKLE, AN ACTRESS PLAYED CARMEN IN A BATH CHAIR

SIGNOR BELLOWNI HAD A SORE THROAT THE OTHER NIGHT, BUT HE PLUCKILY

WENT THROUGH HIS PART WITH THE AID OF A MACHINE

ARE YOU RIGHT SIR?

ALTHOUGH SUFFERING FROM A SEVERE ATTACK OF GOUT, M^{R} BUSKIN PLAYED

ROMEO MANFULLY

AITCHOO!

INFLUENZA DID NOT PREVENT M^{R} YELLOWCHEEK FROM GOING THROUGH HIS

FAVOURITE PART OF HAMLET LAST NIGHT

SIGNOR SQUALLO HAS BEEN CONFINED TO HIS BED WITH PNEUMONIA, BUT WE ARE

GLAD TO SAY HE WAS ABLE TO MAKE A VERY SUCCESSFUL APPEARANCE AS

MEPHISTOPHELES

SUCCESS ATTENDED SIGNOR TOPNOTO’S IMPERSONATION OF TRISTAN, THOUGH HE

WAS NURSING A BAD COLD IN THE HEAD.

Page 27.

“HOORAY!” “SPLENDID!” “BRAVO!”

STEALS SOMEONE ELSE’S GIRL

“WELL DONE!” “I HOPE HE WON’T BE FOUND OUT!” “HOW DARING HE IS!”

STEALS HER FATHER’S PICTURES

“GOOD!” “ISN’T HE A SPORTSMAN!” “WHAT A SPLENDID FELLOW!”

STEALS HER TIARA

“FINE!” “I HOPE HE’LL ESCAPE!” “HOW NOBLE!”

ESCAPES FROM POLICE IN A MOTOR CAR

Page 31.

THE LIGHTING OF THE HOUSE IS SURE TO RECEIVE ATTENTION

MR BUSKIN M.P. HURRIES TO THE HOUSE AFTER A MATINÉE TO VOTE FOR HIS

PARTY

“DISGRACEFUL COSTUME” “OUGHT NOT TO BE ALLOWED!” “LOWERS THE DIGNITY

OF THE HOUSE!”

DIGNIFIED EXIT OF M^{R} GARRICK-KEAN M.P. AFTER AN UNSUCCESSFUL

ATTEMPT TO ENGAGE THE ATTENTION OF THE HOUSE.

“CHAIR” “BOO” “ORDER”

“NO MATTER-R-R! A TIME WILL COME!”

“WHERE’S THE PROMPTER?”

A MAIDEN SPEECH

“HA! HA!” “HA! HA!” “HA! HA!”

EFFECT OF A LOW COMEDIAN ON THE HOUSE

Page 32.

WE SHALL SOON SEE ACTORS WEARING MASKS OUT OF DOORS

THE ACTOR-MANAGER WILL REFUSE LIMELIGHT

“THIS PART OF THE STAGE WILL DO FOR ME”

THIS WILL BE A QUITE USUAL OCCURRENCE ON FIRST NIGHTS

“M^{R} GARRICK-KEAN IS NO LONGER IN THE HOUSE!”

THE GENERAL APPEARANCE OF THE ACTOR WILL CHANGE FROM THIS-- TO THIS--

THIS MAY POSSIBLY HAPPEN

“NO, I’VE TAKEN ONE CALL, LET SOMEONE ELSE GO FORWARD NOW!”

Page 35.

“BE OFF, OR I’LL CALL IN THE POLICE!”

“WHAT CHEEK!”

“WANTS TO BUY A SEAT!”

“WHAT IMPUDENCE!”

WHEN BUSINESS IS GOOD

“LET ME TAKE YOUR COAT, SIR!”

“DO TAKE A PROGRAMME, SIR!”

“ANY SEAT YOU LIKE, SIR!”

“COME IN MY DEAR SIR. DON’T GO AWAY!”

WHEN BUSINESS IS BAD

Page 39.

“COME AND LUNCH WITH ME AT THE ACTORS’ CLUB”

“HULLO, OLD MAN, SEEN ME IN MY NEW PART? BIGGEST SUCCESS OF MODERN

TIMES!”

“HULLO, DEAR BOY, SEEN MY ROMEO? FINEST EVER KNOWN--BRINGS THE HOUSE

DOWN EVERY NIGHT!”

“I TELL YOU, OLD BOY, MY SHOW IS THE FUNNIEST IN LONDON. I’M SIMPLY

GREAT IN IT!”

“SMITH’S HAMLET ISN’T IN IT WITH MINE!”

“COME AND LUNCH WITH ME AT THE ACTORS’ CLUB”

Page 56.

IT IS A STRANGE IDIOSYNCRACY OF CERTAIN THEATRE-GOERS THAT THEY WILL

HUSTLE AND PUSH AND FIGHT TO LEAVE THEIR SEATS BEFORE THE CURTAIN GOES

DOWN--

--IN ORDER TO STAND AT THE ENTRANCE AND PREVENT OTHERS FROM LEAVING

THE THEATRE

Page 57.

CALL BOY

CHARWOMAN

SUPERS

STAGE CARPENTER

SCENE SHIFTERS

BOOT MAKER

TAILOR

UPHOLSTERER

WIG MAKER

LIMELIGHT MAN

PROMPTER

GAS FITTER

TROMBONE

Page 116 top.

LITERATURE: we shall all be run down & devoured!!--there won’t be a

bit of us left for succedding ages!--the dogs nowadays have got such

large Capacities!!

Left hand baby: FIRST STEPS TO LEARNING

Right hand baby: READING MADE EASY

Page 116 bottom.

Flag: We are the boys

Book title: NEW HORN BOOK EVERY MAN his own TRUMPETER.

Page 118.

Girl: You see Gran Ma, before you suct this Egg, or, more properly

speaking before you extract the matter contained within this shell by

suction, you must make an incision at the Apex & a Corresponding

aperture at the base.

Grandma: Aye, Dear--How very clever!!--they only used to make a hole

at each end in my time--Well I declare they are making improvments in

everything.

Book: WHO KILLED COCK ROBIN

Books in toy basket: amongst others THEOLOGY, SHAKESPEARE, EUCLID,

BOYLE, BENTLEY, MILTON, HUME

Page 178.

Now mind, you are to make me appear as usgly as you can--aye--you may

stare!--but you must know that I am the only one that dislikes

flattery. In fact, I want every-body to laugh at me--so the more

ridiculous you make methe better I shall like it

It’s an odd request! But I’ll do my best

Page 190 top.

WAITING FOR A SEAT

THE FIGHT ROUND THE TEA ROOM

Charming!

How nice

How pretty!

Quite nice

TRYING TO GET A GLIMPSE OF THE PICTURES

OH MY HEAD! GOING

HOME

NEXT DAY

Page 249.

Pa. By Bobby

Ma. By Bobby

Grandpa. By Bobby

Sister. By Bobby

Page 287.

♫ SING HO! FOR THE LIFE OF A CLERK ♫

♫ TRA-LA ♫

♫ WE ARE BARRISTERS BOLD AND FREE ♫

♫ YES BOLD AND FREE ♫

♫ WHO SO FREE IN THE LAND! ♫

♫ WE’VE GOT NO WORK TO DO-O ♫

♫ OH A LIFE ON THE STOCK EXCHANGE ♫

♫ THE LIFE OF A TYPIST IS GAY ♫

♫ TRA-LA-LA! ♫

♫ MERRY SHOP GIRLS ARE WE ♫

I SAID HANDKERCHIEFS

♫ YO-HO! YO-O HO! ♫

♫ NOW WHO’S FOR THE BA-ANK! ♫

Transcriber’s Notes

Depending on the hard- and software used, not all elements may display

as intended.

Inconsistencies and unusual spelling have been retained.

The transcriptions of the texts inside illustrations have been made

for this e-text.

Some missing and incorrect punctuation has been added or corrected

silently, as have been some obvious printer’s errors.

On page 74/75, 176/177 and 252/253 references to the illustrations and

captions on the opposite page have been deleted.

Page 84: ... the muffs who loat ... has been changed to ... the muffs

who gloat ....