Punch (88.1885)

172 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [April n, 1885.

ALL ROUND THE STUDIOS.

(From Our Special on ‘‘Show Sunday.’’)

.As usual we sent Our Private and Yery Special All-Rounder to
visit the Studios on Show Sunday. The next morning we received
the following note :—

Dear Ed.,—Merely writing" ’Ed.” reminds me, if I wanted remind-
ing, that I have such an ’ead, myself, this morning ! It is one of my

bad days: East winds,
I think: can’t make it
out. I went all round
lAsasYg'AA the Studios yesterday,

\ from morn till dewy

.. Studios^went all-round

ftjSSj Artists were old friends
of mine, some were
'anoient playmates, the
I?'**-majority were total
1 \ A-AsATlMi Tfiy strangers, but the same

1 d\ M VI f spiritof true hospitality

jj and good - fellowship

an<l aU °f them, from

W ^ ti<‘®|v the President down to

S ' the paint-pot boy, were

f S delighted to see me.

'/'” ' The cannikin clinked

7(1 fk /x!N|\, in every Studio. We

\\ '> drank to old times, to

\\ present times, to future

^ \ glories ; we toasted

. -r~ J you, Sir, as the Editor,

and we drank to our
'•'JJJ-- next merry meeting,

or meetings, as on my
Our All Rounder.—A Regular Topper. Notes I find that I am

engaged for a series of
artistic dinner-parties, many of them actually on the same day
and at the same hour, and a lot of the dear merry Swiss Cottage
Boys are coming to me, but somehow the dates,—my Notes were
made in the gloaming,—have got mixed, and I shall have to go all
round again next Sunday, to find out when I dine with everybody,
and when anybody dines with me.

As you are in a pressing hurry, I must send you my Notes just as
they are. I have every faith in your dear clever printers, but,
above all, in your able and astute Editorship, and no doubt, between
you all, you will be able to “sift the sand from the wheat”—(or
whatever the darned proverb is—I was never good at proverbs)—and
present a clear account of my Grand Rounds to your readers. “Pass
Grand Rounds and all’s well,”—at least all will be well when I’ve
staived for a day, and slept for a night, and seen nobody, and done
nothing.—Yours ever.

We set his Report verbatim before our readers, and they will then
perceive for themselves why we should have every sort of confidence
in him on a future occasion. The Notes are in pencil, and become
more and more illegible as they proceed. The first ones are not very
dear, as the writer has evidently written his latest remarks over his
earliest. We give the result as best we can :—

Sunny morning. Coldish. Dry. Warm walking. Nipping, and
an eager air. Called at Sir Frederick’s. He is very busy. Capital
sherry and biscuits. Sorry he couldn’t see me. Will I call again
in an hour. Yes. Much warmer. Where next ? Try Arhitage.
Knew Arhitage when he was a boy. Excellent chap—first-rate
dry sherry—and biscuits. Better than the President’s- that is, for
my own taste. Asked Army where he got it. Do I think he stole
it, he says. Apologise. More sherry. Early, Sunday morning.
Not used to this sort of thing since we were hoys together. Old
Army says, will I go now, as he’s busy painting something for St.
Paul’s Cathedral, and he has lots of people he must attend to. I say
certainly—yes, by all means. What day will suit him to come and
foregather? Foregathering Day settled. When? Quite forgot to ask.
Door shut. WUl go back, and ask when. No, will call back—no, will
call on my way back to ask when. Quite forgot to see old Army’s
pictures. Must look in again. Where to now ? Hi! Cab! Rather
sleepy. Effect, I think, of getting up so early, or else it’s the smell
of the paint in the Studios. Cabman, drive to Mlllais’. He doesn’t
know where Millais’ is. I say, Red House—round corner. Big
place—steps up inside—lots of carriages (I nearly said Asparagus,
instead of carriages—I am so sleepy) at door. That’s Millais’
house. Arrive suddenly. Keep cab. Door open. People going in,
and coming out. Staircase very beautiful, but slippery. Feel a
little faint. It’s the heat. Art-Butler wants me to have some

soda-water. Sherry and biscuit. Water biscuits ? No; oil-cake,
out of compliment to Art. Take a hair of the biscuit that bit me.
Millais’ painting long subject,—The Orni—The Ornitholollogist.
Intended as a decoration for St. Paul’s Cathedral. Burial of a Tolde-
rolologist,—it sounds like a comic chorus. Millais has some good
sherry, too—not so good as President’s, and not up to old Abhy’s. Must
go back and see old Abmy. Oil-oake biscuits better at Millais’.

Took cab again to see Frank Holl. Quite a little Holliday. No
sherry here. Port. Dry. So am I. And a sandwich. Knew
Holl sinoe he was quite a child. He is painting Lord Duffebin as
Hamlet. Yery good likeness. Too much port in it. No thank you,
I don’t smoke with port before one o’clock in the day. Must go on
now. Shan’t sleep here,—though really if it wasn’t for duty, which
urges me on, I should like snooze. Hi! Cab! Fbith’s. Don]t know
where Fbith’s is ? And call yourself a cabman! House, with flag
flying to indicate luncheon time. Yes—that’s Fbith’s. Just sitting
down to shoulder of mutton and potatoes. Wouldn’t disturb him
for world—will see pictures after lunch. I never take lunch—
never. Won’t I break through rule ? Yes, I will, as I am breaking
through rules to-day. Show Sunday. I’m so warm now I call it
“ Tree Show Sunday.” Roars of laughter. Fbith good French
scholar, sees joke with half an eye. Likes the merry jest which
cheers but doesn’t inebriate. I cheer, but don’t inebriate. Bitter
Beer or Champagne ? Well—both so good—and I never lunch—
that—beer safer to begin with, and champagne after, if my host takes
it. Hope he ’ll make himself quite at home. If he likes to paint
during luncheon time it won’t disturb me. Will I have cigar and
whiskey and water ? Well—let’s see—it’s getting late—just two—
but it’s Show Sunday—and if I start again at 2'30Imight show
myself in the Park, and then show myself at church on way back.
Back where? Millais’ or President’s. Said I’d call somewhere.
Got it on my Notes. Can’t find it. What’s Fbith painting ? Oh
—I see—yes—“ John Knox and the Pope." Capital subject.
Intended for decoration of St. Paul’s Cathedral. Did he do it all
this morning? Must be off now. Got to go somewhere else—say
Boughton’s, because it begins with “ B.” Hi! Cab!

Curious change in weather. Misty. Some difficulty in seeing
Notes. Oughtn’t to have taken that heavy luncheon. Must walk it
off—that is, when I get out of cab. Boughton at home. Sorry I
can’t go all the way up-stairs. Will he bring his pictures down, and
hang ’em in the hall for me to ’spect ? If he won’t, it’s his loss, not
mine. Sherry? No. Well, then, as it’s after lunch-time—he’s so
hospiterable—this I put down on Notes—a liqueur is the very thing.
It corrects everything. All right. And a mild cigar. Well,
don’t mind mild cigar. But must see picshures. I’ve got to make
Notes—picshures,. That’s what I want Boughton to understand,
and he doesn’t seem to be caperahle—no, capable—of understanding
it. If he will sit still in the hall, he can tell me what it’s all
about. I mean, he can tell me what he’s all about—what he’s
painting. He is telling me, and I am putting it down on my Notes.
His subjects are Chartreuse Verte, Two Salmon, with Milton’s
young wife between them on a Bunhill, and Chartreuse Jaune this
time from ’nother point of hue. Intended for St. Paul’s Cathedral.
Everything seems intended for St. Paul’s Cathedral.

Made all my Notes; must go now to Marcus Stone’s. Tea in the
arbour—I mean parlour. Will I prefer brandy-and-soda ? Well,
just to please him, will take bransoda ; just drink luck to picshures.
By the way, what is picshures—I should say, are piotures—yours
his—this year ? He doesn’t know what to call it. Will I give it
a name? I say, Bransoda. Marcus says, wishes he’d thought
of it before, as it would have made fine decorative subjeot for
St. Paul’s. Why do they all want to decorate St. Paul’s ? Must
go back and ask Arhitage. Marcus says, “ Don’t go to sleep.”
I’m not going to sleep, I tell him,—only_thinking,—with Note-
book in hand. I’ll give him a name for his picture—“The Stolen
Keys.” Why Stolen Keys ? Why, hang it, doesn’t he remember
his own work? That was “ Stealing the Keys,” long ago. Then,
by this time, the keys are stolen; any subsequent picture could
be called “ Stolen Keys.” Somehow, Marcus_ seems to fade away
from me, and float off as in a vision. Odd, this effect. I’m afraid
I shall have to go to an ooulist. And then, I’m getting so sleepy.
That’s three times to-day I’ve fallen asleep while I’ve been talking;
and I’ve often noticed this in other people when 1 ’ve been talking;
and I’ve attributed it to their ill health. Must consult Solicitor—
I mean Doctor. No one in Studio. _ Servant says Master ’bliged
to go out,—but can she give me anything? No, thanks. Off.

I begin to feel quite fresh again. Must have slept longer than I had
imagined. Must now go and see P. R. Morris, Herkomer, Dicksee,
Pettie, and Riviere. Not half done yet. On the road stop at
the Three Witches’ Cavern to see Macbeth ; then to Macwhirter’s,
then to Macwhistler’s. Then to St. John’s Wood Division. After
Macbeth ought to see the Cauldron,—no, the Calderon. Ah!
Macwhirter. Bless him! Recollect his story in German, The
Sorrows of Macwhirter. Just caught him. Not seen him for
years. How’s all at hame wi’ ye ? Whiskey first-rate; never
tasted anything equal to it. The whiskey-and-water sketch of