DOI Heft:
November 6, 1880
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17764#0213
Novhmber 6, 1880.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARI VaK!.
A).j
ROUND ABOUT TOWN.
The Diploma Gallery at the Royal Academy.%
A short time since “ A Musical Joke by Mozart,” played at some
Promenade Concerts, attracted all London to hear it. The thousands
who delighted in the pleasantry, if they visited Burlington House
between the hours of ten and four, would find another tour deforce
of a similar character. All they would have to do would be to ask
their way to the Diploma Gallery. “ When found, they might make
a note of ” what mav be aptly termed a “ piece of pictorial waggery.”
On the occasion of my visit I was kindly attended (“in my mind’s
eye, Horatio ”) by the spectral figure of atypical Royal Academician,
who was good enough to act as a guide.
“ We have managed to hide the directing placard behind apillar,”
chuckled this amusing personage, as I ascended some stone steps.
“ When the Public can’t find it* they do grow so wild ! ”
Smiling good-naturedly at the joke, 1 pushed open a door, and
found myself in a dimly-lighted passage leading to a dark staircase.
“ You will have to go to the very top before you come to our little
comicalities,” was the spectral commentary. It was true enough.
I laboured up and up until, out of breath, I reached a landing, upou
which was placed a plaster-cast which I pretended to examine with
the greatest curiosity.
“ What a humbug you are! ” was whispered in my ear. “ You
know you can’t see it! Do you think we should have put it there if
we had believed for a moment that you could ? Excelsior ! Plenty
more steps before you come to us! ”
Again I laboured on, and found another plaster-cast, which I
learnt was the same as the first—Cupid and Psyche, by Gibson.
“Funny notion that, eh?” I heard. “Pity we hadn’t more of
them! But as we had only two, we put both of them in corners,
close together, in the dark ! Come, you must smile at that piece of
drollery! ”
I stumbled on, and encountered more plaster-casts. So far as I
could make out, they appeared to be busts of nobody in particular,
grouped round the model of a horse that would have been the very
thing for a sign outside a farrier’s shop.
Another effort*and I was in the Gallery.
There were three rooms. On my left,
amongst some statues, sat the genius of
the place. He wore a cap drawn down
close over his ears, a horse-cloth thrown
over his shoulders, and a blanket tucked
comfortably round his legs. He was seated
on a chair, reading a daily paper, and
seemed to be suffering greatly from the
draught. Beside him (under a towel) was
a suit of livery, apparently ready to be
assumed at a moment’s notice, on the
approach of Royalty or other visitors of distinction. He looked at
me as I entered, as if he were unaccustomed to the presence of
strangers, and then resumed his reading.
“ You can see, from the unconventional costume of our custodian,
that the Public do not patronise us as they ought to do,” grumbled
my Spectre-guide. “ In fact, our janitor has the place very much to
himself. He must know all our little jokes by heart. I verily
believe that even the ‘ Battle of Chillianwallah,’ at the end of the
Gallery, by this time has ceased to move him to uproarious merri-
ment 1 ”
Leaving the official in undress behind me, I walked quickly into
the last room. It contained an enormous Cartoon of B KUCHER
meeting Wellington after Waterloo, hung in such a manner as to
bring out in full relief the rich absurdities of Mr. Jones’s martial
masterpiece. A strange mixture of dying Guardsmen, military
sycophants, and Generals pranciDg unconcernedly amongst the
wounded, formed a striking contrast to a small and compact set
piece that in the palmy days of Astley’s Amphitheatre would have
been undoubtedly “billed” as “Exciting Combats, one hundred
trained Auxiliaries, concluding with a grand display of Fireworks,
and the triumphant Yictory of the gallant British Arms—for this
night only 1 ” The two battle-pieces were toned down with a myste-
rious piece of stonework labelled “Antique Fragment of a Female
Draped Figure.” Further on was an arm-chair under a glass-case,
that seemed to be proud of its anonymity.
“We don’t tell them what it is, or to whom it belonged, or how it
came here,” explained the Spectre. “ We do so like to puzzle
them! ”
I now entered the Centre Room. On one side were the efforts of
past Academicians—on the other the works of more modern Masters.
I selected the latter for examination. The study of a gigantic hand
first attracted my attention. It was worked out in great detail in
shadow on the wall in conjunction with the reflection of a nose which
had been introduced most successfully to heighten the effect. The
hand belonged to Mr. Cope, but I could not discover the proprietor of
the nose. Hot far from this quaint fancy was a merry family party
engaged, apparently, in a game of romps. The son had put his
head on the table ready to cry forfeits ; one of his sisters, evidently
preferring blind man’s-buff, had covered
her eyes with an apron; while a
second damsel whispered into the ear
of the good old mother one of a series
of “ cross questions and crooked
answers” destined presently to set the
table in a roar. In the meanwhile the
gtnial old father politely requested a
young lady carrying a doll to with-
draw into the garden for a few
minutes, while he prepared to surprise
her with a little “dumb crambo.” I
was heartil.y admiring this pleasant
picture of “ Christmas Time at Holly-
bush Farm,” when I was surprised
to notice the composition labelled, for
some unaccountable reason, “The
Outcast.”
And now I came to a characteristic
work bv that greatest of artists, Mr. Solomon Hart. It was called
11 An Early Reading of Shakspeare,” and was chiefly remarkable
for the Reader’s legs, which were of abnormal proportions. Leaving
a waxwork group of “St. Gregory teaching his Chant” for the
consideration of some unam-
bitious imitator of Madame
Tussattd, I came to a pic-
torial protest against the
views favoured by Sir Wil-
frid Lawson. A lady (whose
recent occupation was deli-
cately hinted at in the tones
of her nose) was rising from
a wine-cellar, to kiss a semi-
intoxicated lover in the pre-
sence of a decidedly “ drunk
and incapable ” Father.
Turning from this “ Scene from the Tivo Gentlemen of Verona ” (as
the painful tableau was called), 1 gazed at an enormous picture of a
salmon, a few mountains, a couple of boats, and a study of wide-
awakes. This vast composition turned out to be “ Letters and News
at the Loch sided’ The central fish was interesting, but I cannot
conscientiously say that I admired the accessories.
I next noticed a picture of Mr. Frith (dressed for a lounge in the
Park) busily engaged in sketching a sleeping crossing-sweeper.
Charmed with this study of real life, 1 turned to something more
artificial. In a “ Pleasant Corner ” I found a wax doll in a ten-
and-sixpenny doll’s house. Then came an old favourite. “ Whither ”
introducing me once again to a portly mediaeval Paterfamilias taking
a walk in his garden after his dinner. He was still accompanied by
his daughter carrying a tin of biscuits. I could hear the girl murmur,
as of old, “I do so wish Papa would return to the house for his
coffee, as he will wear his slippers ! ” Then Mr. Hook showed me an
incident in country life. A man was meeting a woman and a child
in a lane, and exclaiming, on noticing that they both were wearing
“ big heads,” “ What, BoxiDg Day already ! ” Lastly, I stumbled
upon a strange-looking person, biting his nails among some moun-
tainous sponge-cakes, while a lion in the back-ground leisurely
devoured a baby hippopotamus. I frankly admit I was perplexed
to make head or tail of it.
“I knew you would never guess it!” exclaimed my spectral
Friend, who had been silent for some time. “ But look at the label,
and you will be enlightened.”
_ I obeyed the direction, and read, to my extreme astonishment, the
simple word “ Remorse.” This last mystery unnerved me. I deter-
mined to fly before my confusion was completed.
“ But you have not seen half the good things!” exclaimed my
shadowy Guide. “ The old pictures are just as funny as the new ;
and there is really a world of quiet humour in the arrangement of
the back hair of a lion belonging to St. Jerome. It has been imitated
in the toy-shops, but-”
I angrily interrupted, and refused to go further.
“But pray be reasonable,” continued the well-meaning Phantom.
“ You cannot imagine what an absurd effect we obtain by mixing up
the Gibson Gallery with the daubs of a century. You cannot
think-”
But by this time I had escaped, and was once more in Piccadilly.
As I hurriedly walked away, an old lady stopped me, and asked me
where she could find the Chamber of Horrors ?
“ In the right-hand corner of Burlington House,” 1 replied, and
although I answered at random, I believe I spoke truthfully.
A “ Screw ” of Tobacco.—The man who grudges you a cigar.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARI VaK!.
A).j
ROUND ABOUT TOWN.
The Diploma Gallery at the Royal Academy.%
A short time since “ A Musical Joke by Mozart,” played at some
Promenade Concerts, attracted all London to hear it. The thousands
who delighted in the pleasantry, if they visited Burlington House
between the hours of ten and four, would find another tour deforce
of a similar character. All they would have to do would be to ask
their way to the Diploma Gallery. “ When found, they might make
a note of ” what mav be aptly termed a “ piece of pictorial waggery.”
On the occasion of my visit I was kindly attended (“in my mind’s
eye, Horatio ”) by the spectral figure of atypical Royal Academician,
who was good enough to act as a guide.
“ We have managed to hide the directing placard behind apillar,”
chuckled this amusing personage, as I ascended some stone steps.
“ When the Public can’t find it* they do grow so wild ! ”
Smiling good-naturedly at the joke, 1 pushed open a door, and
found myself in a dimly-lighted passage leading to a dark staircase.
“ You will have to go to the very top before you come to our little
comicalities,” was the spectral commentary. It was true enough.
I laboured up and up until, out of breath, I reached a landing, upou
which was placed a plaster-cast which I pretended to examine with
the greatest curiosity.
“ What a humbug you are! ” was whispered in my ear. “ You
know you can’t see it! Do you think we should have put it there if
we had believed for a moment that you could ? Excelsior ! Plenty
more steps before you come to us! ”
Again I laboured on, and found another plaster-cast, which I
learnt was the same as the first—Cupid and Psyche, by Gibson.
“Funny notion that, eh?” I heard. “Pity we hadn’t more of
them! But as we had only two, we put both of them in corners,
close together, in the dark ! Come, you must smile at that piece of
drollery! ”
I stumbled on, and encountered more plaster-casts. So far as I
could make out, they appeared to be busts of nobody in particular,
grouped round the model of a horse that would have been the very
thing for a sign outside a farrier’s shop.
Another effort*and I was in the Gallery.
There were three rooms. On my left,
amongst some statues, sat the genius of
the place. He wore a cap drawn down
close over his ears, a horse-cloth thrown
over his shoulders, and a blanket tucked
comfortably round his legs. He was seated
on a chair, reading a daily paper, and
seemed to be suffering greatly from the
draught. Beside him (under a towel) was
a suit of livery, apparently ready to be
assumed at a moment’s notice, on the
approach of Royalty or other visitors of distinction. He looked at
me as I entered, as if he were unaccustomed to the presence of
strangers, and then resumed his reading.
“ You can see, from the unconventional costume of our custodian,
that the Public do not patronise us as they ought to do,” grumbled
my Spectre-guide. “ In fact, our janitor has the place very much to
himself. He must know all our little jokes by heart. I verily
believe that even the ‘ Battle of Chillianwallah,’ at the end of the
Gallery, by this time has ceased to move him to uproarious merri-
ment 1 ”
Leaving the official in undress behind me, I walked quickly into
the last room. It contained an enormous Cartoon of B KUCHER
meeting Wellington after Waterloo, hung in such a manner as to
bring out in full relief the rich absurdities of Mr. Jones’s martial
masterpiece. A strange mixture of dying Guardsmen, military
sycophants, and Generals pranciDg unconcernedly amongst the
wounded, formed a striking contrast to a small and compact set
piece that in the palmy days of Astley’s Amphitheatre would have
been undoubtedly “billed” as “Exciting Combats, one hundred
trained Auxiliaries, concluding with a grand display of Fireworks,
and the triumphant Yictory of the gallant British Arms—for this
night only 1 ” The two battle-pieces were toned down with a myste-
rious piece of stonework labelled “Antique Fragment of a Female
Draped Figure.” Further on was an arm-chair under a glass-case,
that seemed to be proud of its anonymity.
“We don’t tell them what it is, or to whom it belonged, or how it
came here,” explained the Spectre. “ We do so like to puzzle
them! ”
I now entered the Centre Room. On one side were the efforts of
past Academicians—on the other the works of more modern Masters.
I selected the latter for examination. The study of a gigantic hand
first attracted my attention. It was worked out in great detail in
shadow on the wall in conjunction with the reflection of a nose which
had been introduced most successfully to heighten the effect. The
hand belonged to Mr. Cope, but I could not discover the proprietor of
the nose. Hot far from this quaint fancy was a merry family party
engaged, apparently, in a game of romps. The son had put his
head on the table ready to cry forfeits ; one of his sisters, evidently
preferring blind man’s-buff, had covered
her eyes with an apron; while a
second damsel whispered into the ear
of the good old mother one of a series
of “ cross questions and crooked
answers” destined presently to set the
table in a roar. In the meanwhile the
gtnial old father politely requested a
young lady carrying a doll to with-
draw into the garden for a few
minutes, while he prepared to surprise
her with a little “dumb crambo.” I
was heartil.y admiring this pleasant
picture of “ Christmas Time at Holly-
bush Farm,” when I was surprised
to notice the composition labelled, for
some unaccountable reason, “The
Outcast.”
And now I came to a characteristic
work bv that greatest of artists, Mr. Solomon Hart. It was called
11 An Early Reading of Shakspeare,” and was chiefly remarkable
for the Reader’s legs, which were of abnormal proportions. Leaving
a waxwork group of “St. Gregory teaching his Chant” for the
consideration of some unam-
bitious imitator of Madame
Tussattd, I came to a pic-
torial protest against the
views favoured by Sir Wil-
frid Lawson. A lady (whose
recent occupation was deli-
cately hinted at in the tones
of her nose) was rising from
a wine-cellar, to kiss a semi-
intoxicated lover in the pre-
sence of a decidedly “ drunk
and incapable ” Father.
Turning from this “ Scene from the Tivo Gentlemen of Verona ” (as
the painful tableau was called), 1 gazed at an enormous picture of a
salmon, a few mountains, a couple of boats, and a study of wide-
awakes. This vast composition turned out to be “ Letters and News
at the Loch sided’ The central fish was interesting, but I cannot
conscientiously say that I admired the accessories.
I next noticed a picture of Mr. Frith (dressed for a lounge in the
Park) busily engaged in sketching a sleeping crossing-sweeper.
Charmed with this study of real life, 1 turned to something more
artificial. In a “ Pleasant Corner ” I found a wax doll in a ten-
and-sixpenny doll’s house. Then came an old favourite. “ Whither ”
introducing me once again to a portly mediaeval Paterfamilias taking
a walk in his garden after his dinner. He was still accompanied by
his daughter carrying a tin of biscuits. I could hear the girl murmur,
as of old, “I do so wish Papa would return to the house for his
coffee, as he will wear his slippers ! ” Then Mr. Hook showed me an
incident in country life. A man was meeting a woman and a child
in a lane, and exclaiming, on noticing that they both were wearing
“ big heads,” “ What, BoxiDg Day already ! ” Lastly, I stumbled
upon a strange-looking person, biting his nails among some moun-
tainous sponge-cakes, while a lion in the back-ground leisurely
devoured a baby hippopotamus. I frankly admit I was perplexed
to make head or tail of it.
“I knew you would never guess it!” exclaimed my spectral
Friend, who had been silent for some time. “ But look at the label,
and you will be enlightened.”
_ I obeyed the direction, and read, to my extreme astonishment, the
simple word “ Remorse.” This last mystery unnerved me. I deter-
mined to fly before my confusion was completed.
“ But you have not seen half the good things!” exclaimed my
shadowy Guide. “ The old pictures are just as funny as the new ;
and there is really a world of quiet humour in the arrangement of
the back hair of a lion belonging to St. Jerome. It has been imitated
in the toy-shops, but-”
I angrily interrupted, and refused to go further.
“But pray be reasonable,” continued the well-meaning Phantom.
“ You cannot imagine what an absurd effect we obtain by mixing up
the Gibson Gallery with the daubs of a century. You cannot
think-”
But by this time I had escaped, and was once more in Piccadilly.
As I hurriedly walked away, an old lady stopped me, and asked me
where she could find the Chamber of Horrors ?
“ In the right-hand corner of Burlington House,” 1 replied, and
although I answered at random, I believe I spoke truthfully.
A “ Screw ” of Tobacco.—The man who grudges you a cigar.