Nos. 586 (by Louis Falero), 590 (by St. George Hare), 591 (_encore_ Falero).Nos. 586 (by Louis Falero), 590 (by St. George Hare), 591 (encoreFalero). Awkward Position of an Unprofessional Sitter at a Studio when the Models have arrived, but the Artist hasn't yet turned up.
Nos. 586 (by Louis Falero), 590 (by St. George Hare), 591 (encoreFalero). Awkward Position of an Unprofessional Sitter at a Studio when the Models have arrived, but the Artist hasn't yet turned up.
No. 217. The New Toy. Little Tottie's Mechanical Bird. Sir J. E. Millais, Bart., R.A. No. 131. The Sea Serpent! Caught at last!! General rejoicings!!! No. 218. His First Cigar.
No. 375. Disturbed by Wopses. Arthur Hacker.No. 375. Disturbed by Wopses. Arthur Hacker.
No. 375. Disturbed by Wopses. Arthur Hacker.
No. 18.John Hare, Esq., as seen and painted by SirJohn E. Millais, Bart., R.A., "The Hare Apparent"—to every spectator. But what an unpleasant position! The eminent Actor is either studying a part, or has the Box-office account-book in his hand, and wants a quiet moment for serious thought or close calculation; and yet, in the next room to him (No. 19), one of Mr.Orchardson'syoung ladies is singing and playing a yellow chrome-atic scale, and in the room overhead (No. 17), Mr.Nettleship'stiger has broken loose, and is taking a bath. When rescued from these surroundings, this will remain at home a Hare-loominous picture for the family.
No. 28. "Toe-Toe chez Ta-Ta." MissToetoe, in blue, at work and looking down, says to the other girl,Tata, who is maliciously smiling at her, "Oh dear! Idohope that no one will look at my right thumb or my toes! O Mr.Woods, A., why was my right thumb left like this?"
No. 34. In this Mr.Morley Fletchershows us a Female Martyr in Tomartyr-coloured dress, preparatory to being taken off to theAuto da fé.
No. 45. "An Undress Rehearsal"Stuart G. Davis.
No. 49. "On the Temple Steps." ByJohn Griffiths. For years we've known thatGriffithsis "the safe man" to follow. But, unless this is a work of pure imagination, anyone well acquainted with the Temple Pier and the Temple Steps will naturally ask, "Where are the Steam-boats?"
Nos. 51, 52, and 53. The first is a Harmony in Sea by Mr.Henry Moore, A., and the second is Mr.Miller's—(WilliamnotJoseph Miller)—Colonel Hornsby-Drake. This Drake seems out of his element, as he ought to have been floating about with the wild fowl that belong naturally to the picture below.
Nos. 63-66.
"Four little whitey boys out for a run,Ate early greeny food. Then there were none!"
"Four little whitey boys out for a run,Ate early greeny food. Then there were none!"
"Four little whitey boys out for a run,
Ate early greeny food. Then there were none!"
Painted byAmy Sawyer. "Not a work of imagination, my dear little boys, because you were seen byAmy—that is,Amysaw yer!"
No. 70.Study in Pâtisserie.Design for a chocolate ornament covered with sugar. Recommended by Messrs.Clark and Hamilton.
No. 71.Lion in Desert.Very tame. Mr.Herbert Dicksee.
No. 76.The New Skirt Dance.∴ We strongly recommend the study of this picture to admirers of the "Skirt Dance." It shows how one of the male sex may attempt it—that is, according to the idea of the designer,Herbert Dicksee.
No. 88.Colonel W. Barnardiston."First Chairman of West Suffolk County Council." Painted byHubert Herkomer, R.A. If he is "First Chairman," it doesn't matter what he is afterwards, since he has been immortalised by the admirable painting ofHubert Herkomer. He'll remain "First Chairman" in theDramatis Personæof this year's Catalogue, at all events, and be H. H.'s "Perpetual First Chairman," too, be the other where he may.
No. 103. "Elder Bush." ByH. W. B. Davis,R.A. From the title you might expect it to be the portrait of a Presbyterian "Elder" named "Bush." But it isn't. Look at it. It is the sweetest, most natural, perfectest of charming "bits" of rural Nature in the whole show. There's no beating about this bush; in fact this Elder Bush is one that is very hard to beat.
No. 130.His Grace the Duke of Devonshire.Encore! Bravo, Mr.Hubert Herkomer. You're are a-going it this year, you are, Sir! You've given the Duke all his Grace, and there's a kind of orange tint about him, which, just now, is not without its political signification.
No. 132. We must go to Kennington (T. B. Kennington) to see "The Queen of Love." She is sitting on a tiger's skin, and has her hand on the head of the savage beast, which shows its fangs. "Afang-seesubject," says'Arry Joker.
No. 158.Honeymooners. "Here we are again!" Same kind of Stone Fruit fromMarcus Stone, R.A. "Sparkles this Stone as it was wont!"—Cymbeline.ii., 4. [To be continued in our next.
Among the Immortals at the Royal Academy Banquet Last Saturday.—H.R.H. made one of his usually happy speeches; the Duke ofCambridge, the Earl ofRosebery, and LordHerschellrepresented the comedy element; while LordKelvinand Mr.Leslie Stephenwere perfect in what, theatrically speaking, is termed "the heavy lead;" and certainly their speeches were—ahem!—weighty. Pretty to note how His Scarlet-robed Eminence entered the room, not only with a grace all his own, but with His Grace ofCanterburyas well. Never was the President, SirFrederick Leighton, more effective in all his speeches, and especially when replying to the toast of "The Academy," where the perfection of his speech lay in the subtle concealment of its art, and in the genuine earnestness of his advice to studentsurbi et orbi.
Sporting Answer(Garden).—Tottie: The flower you have forwarded to us is not a flower at all. It is an East African rhinoceros. We have returned it as requested, by parcel post.
Sporting Answer(Garden).—Tottie: The flower you have forwarded to us is not a flower at all. It is an East African rhinoceros. We have returned it as requested, by parcel post.
Who-o-o-f!It's hot amost as Summer-time; yet what a blessed breezeIs a-whiffing round the corners, and a-whoostling through the trees!And the sunlight on the roof-slates, all aslant to the blue sky,Seems to twinkle like the larfter in a pooty gurl's blue eye,When you swing in the dance, and she feels you've got 'er step:And the trees—ah! bless their branches!—through the winter weeks they've slep',When the worrying winds would let 'em, all as black and mum as mutes,A-waiting for the blackbirds, with their calls like meller flutes.Just to whistle them awake like. Oh! but now they stir and rouseLike a girl who has bin dreamin' of her lover in a drowse,And wakes up to feel 'is kisses on 'er softly poutin' lips.How they burst, all a-thirst for the April shower that dripsTinkle-tink from leaf to leaf, washing every spraylet cleanFrom the sooty veil of London, which might dim the buddin' greenOf the pluckiest lime-tree, sproutin' o'er brown pales in a back-yard;For these limes bud betimes, and they find it middlin' hardTo make way at windy corners, when the lamp as lights 'em through,Like gold on green in pantomimes, is blown till it burns blue,By the angry nor'east gusts. But the nor'east wind to-dayIs less like a rampin' lion than some new-born lamb at play.Wy, the laylock's out aready, purple spires and creamy clumps.Oh, that scent of shower-washed laylock! There's a somethin' in me jumpsAs I ketch it round some corner, where the heart-shaped leaflets smallCluster up against the stucco, as they did about that wall,Grey, and gritty, and glass-spiked, of our tumble-down old cotOut Epping way, in boy-time long ago, and quite a lotOf remembrances came crowding, like good ghostes, in that scent;There's the mother's call to dinner, there's the landlord's call—for rent!And the call of the rooks,—and another call, fur off,Like a whisper from a grave-yard, green and silent.Some may scoffAt a Cockney's chat of laylocks. I could bury my old phizIn their crisp and nutty coolness, as I did when flirty Liz,My first sweetheart, sent me packing, one Spring mornin'—for a while—And them blossoms cooled my anger—most as much as the arch smileWhich won me back to wooin'.There's a blackbird on the topOf yon tall, half bare acacia, pipes as if he'd never stop,Tryin' all his tunelets over, like a sort of talking flute:—"Chip-chip! Tsee-tsee! Chu-chu! Chu-rook!" goes the bird of sable suit."We-know-it! We-know-it! We-know-it! Bring-the-whip!—the whip!—the whip!"Chu-rook-chu-chu! Chu-rook-chu-chu! Tsee-tsee-chu-chu-chip-chip!"So he pours his pantin' heart out in a song half tune, half patter,Like a meller music-haller of the tree-tops!Ah—what matterThat 'tis only London's outskirts, that I'm a poor Cockney cove,When this Wondrous Spring is on us? As my shallow on I shove,And blare out my "All-a-blowing, All-a-growing!" down the streets,There's a something fresh and shining-like in every face I meets!Tis the Spring-love breaking through them! Wy, the very dirt looks cleanIn the shimmer of the sunlight, and the shadow of the green.All-a-blowing! All-a-growing!When I shout, I seem to sing,For my cry takes on a music. It's the very Voice of Spring!
Who-o-o-f!It's hot amost as Summer-time; yet what a blessed breezeIs a-whiffing round the corners, and a-whoostling through the trees!And the sunlight on the roof-slates, all aslant to the blue sky,Seems to twinkle like the larfter in a pooty gurl's blue eye,When you swing in the dance, and she feels you've got 'er step:And the trees—ah! bless their branches!—through the winter weeks they've slep',When the worrying winds would let 'em, all as black and mum as mutes,A-waiting for the blackbirds, with their calls like meller flutes.Just to whistle them awake like. Oh! but now they stir and rouseLike a girl who has bin dreamin' of her lover in a drowse,And wakes up to feel 'is kisses on 'er softly poutin' lips.How they burst, all a-thirst for the April shower that dripsTinkle-tink from leaf to leaf, washing every spraylet cleanFrom the sooty veil of London, which might dim the buddin' greenOf the pluckiest lime-tree, sproutin' o'er brown pales in a back-yard;For these limes bud betimes, and they find it middlin' hardTo make way at windy corners, when the lamp as lights 'em through,Like gold on green in pantomimes, is blown till it burns blue,By the angry nor'east gusts. But the nor'east wind to-dayIs less like a rampin' lion than some new-born lamb at play.Wy, the laylock's out aready, purple spires and creamy clumps.Oh, that scent of shower-washed laylock! There's a somethin' in me jumpsAs I ketch it round some corner, where the heart-shaped leaflets smallCluster up against the stucco, as they did about that wall,Grey, and gritty, and glass-spiked, of our tumble-down old cotOut Epping way, in boy-time long ago, and quite a lotOf remembrances came crowding, like good ghostes, in that scent;There's the mother's call to dinner, there's the landlord's call—for rent!And the call of the rooks,—and another call, fur off,Like a whisper from a grave-yard, green and silent.Some may scoffAt a Cockney's chat of laylocks. I could bury my old phizIn their crisp and nutty coolness, as I did when flirty Liz,My first sweetheart, sent me packing, one Spring mornin'—for a while—And them blossoms cooled my anger—most as much as the arch smileWhich won me back to wooin'.There's a blackbird on the topOf yon tall, half bare acacia, pipes as if he'd never stop,Tryin' all his tunelets over, like a sort of talking flute:—"Chip-chip! Tsee-tsee! Chu-chu! Chu-rook!" goes the bird of sable suit."We-know-it! We-know-it! We-know-it! Bring-the-whip!—the whip!—the whip!"Chu-rook-chu-chu! Chu-rook-chu-chu! Tsee-tsee-chu-chu-chip-chip!"So he pours his pantin' heart out in a song half tune, half patter,Like a meller music-haller of the tree-tops!Ah—what matterThat 'tis only London's outskirts, that I'm a poor Cockney cove,When this Wondrous Spring is on us? As my shallow on I shove,And blare out my "All-a-blowing, All-a-growing!" down the streets,There's a something fresh and shining-like in every face I meets!Tis the Spring-love breaking through them! Wy, the very dirt looks cleanIn the shimmer of the sunlight, and the shadow of the green.All-a-blowing! All-a-growing!When I shout, I seem to sing,For my cry takes on a music. It's the very Voice of Spring!
Who-o-o-f!It's hot amost as Summer-time; yet what a blessed breeze
Is a-whiffing round the corners, and a-whoostling through the trees!
And the sunlight on the roof-slates, all aslant to the blue sky,
Seems to twinkle like the larfter in a pooty gurl's blue eye,
When you swing in the dance, and she feels you've got 'er step:
And the trees—ah! bless their branches!—through the winter weeks they've slep',
When the worrying winds would let 'em, all as black and mum as mutes,
A-waiting for the blackbirds, with their calls like meller flutes.
Just to whistle them awake like. Oh! but now they stir and rouse
Like a girl who has bin dreamin' of her lover in a drowse,
And wakes up to feel 'is kisses on 'er softly poutin' lips.
How they burst, all a-thirst for the April shower that drips
Tinkle-tink from leaf to leaf, washing every spraylet clean
From the sooty veil of London, which might dim the buddin' green
Of the pluckiest lime-tree, sproutin' o'er brown pales in a back-yard;
For these limes bud betimes, and they find it middlin' hard
To make way at windy corners, when the lamp as lights 'em through,
Like gold on green in pantomimes, is blown till it burns blue,
By the angry nor'east gusts. But the nor'east wind to-day
Is less like a rampin' lion than some new-born lamb at play.
Wy, the laylock's out aready, purple spires and creamy clumps.
Oh, that scent of shower-washed laylock! There's a somethin' in me jumps
As I ketch it round some corner, where the heart-shaped leaflets small
Cluster up against the stucco, as they did about that wall,
Grey, and gritty, and glass-spiked, of our tumble-down old cot
Out Epping way, in boy-time long ago, and quite a lot
Of remembrances came crowding, like good ghostes, in that scent;
There's the mother's call to dinner, there's the landlord's call—for rent!
And the call of the rooks,—and another call, fur off,
Like a whisper from a grave-yard, green and silent.
Some may scoff
At a Cockney's chat of laylocks. I could bury my old phiz
In their crisp and nutty coolness, as I did when flirty Liz,
My first sweetheart, sent me packing, one Spring mornin'—for a while—
And them blossoms cooled my anger—most as much as the arch smile
Which won me back to wooin'.
There's a blackbird on the top
Of yon tall, half bare acacia, pipes as if he'd never stop,
Tryin' all his tunelets over, like a sort of talking flute:—
"Chip-chip! Tsee-tsee! Chu-chu! Chu-rook!" goes the bird of sable suit.
"We-know-it! We-know-it! We-know-it! Bring-the-whip!—the whip!—the whip!
"Chu-rook-chu-chu! Chu-rook-chu-chu! Tsee-tsee-chu-chu-chip-chip!"
So he pours his pantin' heart out in a song half tune, half patter,
Like a meller music-haller of the tree-tops!
Ah—what matter
That 'tis only London's outskirts, that I'm a poor Cockney cove,
When this Wondrous Spring is on us? As my shallow on I shove,
And blare out my "All-a-blowing, All-a-growing!" down the streets,
There's a something fresh and shining-like in every face I meets!
Tis the Spring-love breaking through them! Wy, the very dirt looks clean
In the shimmer of the sunlight, and the shadow of the green.
All-a-blowing! All-a-growing!When I shout, I seem to sing,
For my cry takes on a music. It's the very Voice of Spring!
'MEAT FOR YOUR MASTER!'"MEAT FOR YOUR MASTER!""We shall only be Two to-night; Cook—your Master and Me—so all we shall want will be Soup and Fish and Lamb and Asparagus, with aSouffléto follow, and a little Sweet-bread after the Fish, you know!""Yes, Ma'am. And for the Kitchen?""Oh—well—there's some of that Potted Ham still left we had for Breakfast yesterday. It's just on the turn, you know, so you may as well finish it Downstairs. It will do very well for your Dinner to-day, and To-morrow you shall each have an Egg!"
"We shall only be Two to-night; Cook—your Master and Me—so all we shall want will be Soup and Fish and Lamb and Asparagus, with aSouffléto follow, and a little Sweet-bread after the Fish, you know!"
"Yes, Ma'am. And for the Kitchen?"
"Oh—well—there's some of that Potted Ham still left we had for Breakfast yesterday. It's just on the turn, you know, so you may as well finish it Downstairs. It will do very well for your Dinner to-day, and To-morrow you shall each have an Egg!"
(Dedicated to the Right Hon. A. J. Balfour.)
Cried Genius A. to Genius B., "Let's summon Genius C.,And, to make apartie carrée, we will call in Genius D."And when they were assembled these solemn four sat down,And they all read Mr.Balfour'sspeech, and read it with a frown.Said Genius A., "No Geniuses? By Heaven, he's talking rot!"And Genius B. replied thereto, "I can't say he is not."And C. and D., the poets, who warble like the birds,Agreed with Genius A. and B. in scorningBalfour'swords."A Geniusmayarise, he says; that's coming it too strong;Why, dash it, I can count up three in prose and eke in song!"Thus A. began; the three replied, "You're not an egoist;You quite forgot to add yourself, and so complete the list.""We'll prove it on the spot," declared dramatic Genius A."You three shall sit as judges, and I will read my play.'Tis a drama of the passions, all strictly based on facts,And they break the Decalogue to bits in five exhaustive Acts.""Thatmightbe good," said B.; "butI've a little thing, I guess,Which ought to take precedence, a novel in MS.;With characters so deftly drawn in all their changing scenes,ThatThackerayandDickensmust be knocked to smithereens."But C. broke in; his hair was long, his eyes were very wild,He was in truth a strangely-garbed and most poetic child;Said he, "Your plays and novels may all be very well,But I've an epic poem here onHappiness in Hell."And D., the pretty lyricist, he hummed and then he hawed,"I've half a hundred sonnets here toMabel,Madge, andMaud.I'll read them first, and then I'll read"—the other three grew pale—"My last new book,The Musings of a Town-bred Nightingale."* * * * * *And so they sat, and talked and talked, the argument waxed hot,For each one was a Genius born, and none would budge a jot.And till they settle who begins, and which of them shall yield,I fear the "dearth of Geniuses"—see speech—must hold the field.
Cried Genius A. to Genius B., "Let's summon Genius C.,And, to make apartie carrée, we will call in Genius D."And when they were assembled these solemn four sat down,And they all read Mr.Balfour'sspeech, and read it with a frown.
Cried Genius A. to Genius B., "Let's summon Genius C.,
And, to make apartie carrée, we will call in Genius D."
And when they were assembled these solemn four sat down,
And they all read Mr.Balfour'sspeech, and read it with a frown.
Said Genius A., "No Geniuses? By Heaven, he's talking rot!"And Genius B. replied thereto, "I can't say he is not."And C. and D., the poets, who warble like the birds,Agreed with Genius A. and B. in scorningBalfour'swords.
Said Genius A., "No Geniuses? By Heaven, he's talking rot!"
And Genius B. replied thereto, "I can't say he is not."
And C. and D., the poets, who warble like the birds,
Agreed with Genius A. and B. in scorningBalfour'swords.
"A Geniusmayarise, he says; that's coming it too strong;Why, dash it, I can count up three in prose and eke in song!"Thus A. began; the three replied, "You're not an egoist;You quite forgot to add yourself, and so complete the list."
"A Geniusmayarise, he says; that's coming it too strong;
Why, dash it, I can count up three in prose and eke in song!"
Thus A. began; the three replied, "You're not an egoist;
You quite forgot to add yourself, and so complete the list."
"We'll prove it on the spot," declared dramatic Genius A."You three shall sit as judges, and I will read my play.'Tis a drama of the passions, all strictly based on facts,And they break the Decalogue to bits in five exhaustive Acts."
"We'll prove it on the spot," declared dramatic Genius A.
"You three shall sit as judges, and I will read my play.
'Tis a drama of the passions, all strictly based on facts,
And they break the Decalogue to bits in five exhaustive Acts."
"Thatmightbe good," said B.; "butI've a little thing, I guess,Which ought to take precedence, a novel in MS.;With characters so deftly drawn in all their changing scenes,ThatThackerayandDickensmust be knocked to smithereens."
"Thatmightbe good," said B.; "butI've a little thing, I guess,
Which ought to take precedence, a novel in MS.;
With characters so deftly drawn in all their changing scenes,
ThatThackerayandDickensmust be knocked to smithereens."
But C. broke in; his hair was long, his eyes were very wild,He was in truth a strangely-garbed and most poetic child;Said he, "Your plays and novels may all be very well,But I've an epic poem here onHappiness in Hell."
But C. broke in; his hair was long, his eyes were very wild,
He was in truth a strangely-garbed and most poetic child;
Said he, "Your plays and novels may all be very well,
But I've an epic poem here onHappiness in Hell."
And D., the pretty lyricist, he hummed and then he hawed,"I've half a hundred sonnets here toMabel,Madge, andMaud.I'll read them first, and then I'll read"—the other three grew pale—"My last new book,The Musings of a Town-bred Nightingale."
And D., the pretty lyricist, he hummed and then he hawed,
"I've half a hundred sonnets here toMabel,Madge, andMaud.
I'll read them first, and then I'll read"—the other three grew pale—
"My last new book,The Musings of a Town-bred Nightingale."
* * * * * *
* * * * * *
And so they sat, and talked and talked, the argument waxed hot,For each one was a Genius born, and none would budge a jot.And till they settle who begins, and which of them shall yield,I fear the "dearth of Geniuses"—see speech—must hold the field.
And so they sat, and talked and talked, the argument waxed hot,
For each one was a Genius born, and none would budge a jot.
And till they settle who begins, and which of them shall yield,
I fear the "dearth of Geniuses"—see speech—must hold the field.
Rather a Long Shot.—How to "attempt the life of thePremier." Discharge a revolver in the neighbourhood of Downing Street, and listen to the report in the evening papers.
Rather a Long Shot.—How to "attempt the life of thePremier." Discharge a revolver in the neighbourhood of Downing Street, and listen to the report in the evening papers.
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