ROUND THE GALLERIES
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
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.
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!
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.
The advantage of the practice of “athletic exercises” by young painters, as recommended by a great critic.
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.
[PLEASURES OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY.]
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.
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!”
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!
“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!!!
“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.”
THE UMBRELLA QUESTION:
Or, what it would have come to, if some people had had their way.
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.”
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!
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!!
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
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
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!
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.