PARS ABOUT PICTURES.
"The Royal Society of Painters in Water-Colours?" said young PAR. "Nonsense! why all the water is frozen now, and so they can't paint!" "Precisely," replied I; "and that's why it is a nice exhibition!" This so startled Young PAR that he slipped and fell. I turned into the Gallery in Pall Mall, and left him sitting on the cold hard flags outside. Inside pleasant enough. BIRKET FOSTER's "Island of Rum" very comforting—should like some hot. HERBERT MARSHALL—our own City MARSHALL—has gone further afield, to "Old Chelsea." Should now be called the Field MAR SHALL. MATTHEW HALE, in "Gathering Blackberries," is a hail fellow well met! "The Corso, Verona," by S.J. HODSON, shows that HODSON's choice is a good one. HENRY MOORE's sea-pieces—the more the merrier, say I. "Warkworth—Sunlit Shower," by A.W. HUNT: a walk worth taking when the hunt is up. "Holidays Past and Future," suggests wide subjects and open spaces. Why, then, is it painted by SMALLFIELD? "Wreck of the Halswell," is a terrible catastrophe. Can't be "All's Well." Possibly the painter, G.H. ANDREWS, means "all swell"—that seems a great deal more likely. ALBERT GOODWIN shows himself to be a good winner in the "Ponte Vecchio, Florence." DU MAURIER delights us with some clever Society sketches in pen and pencil. The veteran, Sir JOHN GILBERT, is as young, as dashing, as vigorous as ever. H.G. GLINDONI has two pictures full of humour and character. STACY MARKS' "Cockatoo" looks as if it had just flown in from the Zoo. "Au Sgarnach," by C.B. PHILLIP. Title difficult to understand. Landscape easy to comprehend. A close study of Nature, admirably painted. A wholesome Phillippic against namby-pamby prettiness. "On the Thames," by G.A. FRIPP, honestly painted, and no frippery about it. Miss CLARA MONTALBA has a large number of pictures of Venice—and Mr. RIDGE comes up and says he is the Keeper. What Keeper? He whispers, he is the Keeper of the Cold Out—What an oridginal remark!—and will I step into the Committee Room? I do, and remain there, and continue to be
Yours par-adoxically, OLD PAR.
ROBERT AT THE HOPERA.
I was habel the other day to do BROWN a good turn by getting him engaged at won of our big Otels, so he kindly offerd to stand a supper, and then take me to the Hopera at Common Garden. We went to see Horfay.
It seems that wunce upon a time, ever so many thowsand years ago, before there was not no Lord Mares, nor no Shirryffs, nor not ewen no Aldermen, a Gent of the name of Horfay lived in Grease. He was the werry grandest Fiddler of his time, a regler JOEY KIM. Well, he married a werry bewtiful wife, of the name of Yourridisee, and they was both werry appy, till one day, as she was a having a run in a field, a norrid serpent bit her in her heel; so she died. Well, while poor Mr. Horfay is a telling us all about his trubbel, in comes a werry bewtiful young lady with a pair of most bewtiful wings on, and she werry kindly gives him a new sort of magic Fiddle, called, as I was told, A Liar! to go to—go down to you kno where, to git his wife back! Off he goes, and the neks sean shows us the werry plaice, all filled with savidges, and demons, and snakes, and things; and presently, when Mr. Horfay is seen a cumming down, all the demons and savidges runs at him to stop him; but he holds up the Liar, and begins for to sing, and most bewtifully too, tho' I didn't kno the tune; they all makes way for him, and he gos bang into lots of big flames, and so I werry naterally thort as how it was all over. But not a bit of it, for in the werry next sean we sees him with his Liar in a most lovly garden, all full of most lovly flowers and trees, and numbers of bewtiful ladies, a dancing and enjoying theirselves like fun, until his Liar leads him rite up to his wife, and then he raps harf his scarf round her, and off they gos together, both on 'em dowtless a longing for a reel nupshal kiss, but poor Mr. Horfay not a daring for to look at her, becoz if he does before he gets her home, she will be ded again direckly! Was there hever such a tanterlising case ever known! When she sings to him to give her one loving look, he sings to her to say he mustn't, until at larst she sets down on a nice cumferel-looking sofy, as appens for to be in the werry middel of the street, and says, werry artfully, as she carn't go not one step farther, when in course he turns round, and rushes up to her to have one fond embrace, and, thank goodness, they has it, and then she falls back dead!
Well, now, I knos as I'm ony a mere Hed Waiter, and, therefore, not xpected to have any werry fine feelings, like my betters has, but
I do declare that, when I saw this sad, sad end to all that grand amount of reel true Love, the tears run down my cheeks like rain, and I was a getting up to go away, when presently in came the lovly angel again, whose name I was told was Love, and told him that such love as his could conker Death itself; and she brort the pore wife to life again, and all hended, as all things shood end, jovial, and cumferal, and happy. What a wunderful thing is Music! It didn't seem at all strange to me that not one single word was spoke all the heavening, but ewery word sung, and in a forren tung, too, that I didn't hunderstand, the bewtiful story kep my atention fixt the hole time, and I warked home in the poring rain, werry thankful, and jest a leetle prowd, that in one thing, at least, I was not xacly like BROWN, who slept carm and content thro the hole of the larst hact.
ROBERT.