Punch (90.1886)

April 17, 1886.] PUNCH, OK THE LONDON CHAEIVABI._ 181

PROCEDURE.—A FACT.

Old M.F. "Aw—I say, Robins. 'Xthaordinary thing all the Seats

taken at this early hour. ! "

Official (of many years' standing, who doesn't approve of recent changes). "You
see Sir it's all these 'ere New Members. Early in the day they 're
'ere and then, when the Gentlemen comes down in the Afternoon,
there ain't no room for them !"_

" GBA.ND BOUNDS."

— you've got no pictures
sion of heartfelt and sorrowful disappointment on my countenance.

"Ah! vous ne me comprenez pas—you not me comprehend. I mean, I
should 'ave like to 'ave painted one, two, tree dozen picture,—mats, helas, I 'ave
only painted seven! " Unfortunately I was at the moment suddenly overcome
by the heat of the room, and was unable to wait and examine these works of
Art. " Au revoir.'" were the last words I heard as I descended the front
door-steps. " To the see-again ! " .

At P. IL Calderon's —I found the Cald'ron stirring. There stood Don Philip,
Knight of the Brilliant Brush, leaning against a pillar of the noble portico,—
under which I cantered up to the house,—and prepared to receive cavalry.

" Don't get down," he said, lighting another cigarette, "I'11 bring 'em out to
you—they're in the hall ready for Burlington House. First-rate light for
seeing them here."

Sitting carelessly in my saddle, I examined the first of the lots at my leisure.
" I could look at this," Imurmured, " for years ! "

" Si Signor!" returned Don Filippo ; "but I can't hold it for more than
twenty minutes."

Then he fetched the others : and the others fetched me. The public will not
be disappointed, I think, with the works of Don Philip Calderon this year,
—but that of course is a question of what the public expects. Adios.' Adios !

Frank Dicey's.—" The Master is not in," said a humble pupil, who offered to
hold my gallant steed Bukjomprke for a consideration. So I walked into the
Studio, and had there been anything to find fault with, I should have walked
into the Artist. Could I look at his picture without at once, Weglike, dropping
into, poetry.

0 Frank Dicey,
Nicoy ! Nicey !!

And treading lightly so as not to waken "the Sleeping Beauty," I sped down

the stairs, and throwing largesse to the pupil, and bid-
ding bim follow in the steps of the excellent maitre, I
trotted off to the next on my list.

"Many pictures?" I asked, as Frederick Good all
slid down the banister-rail and alighted flop, in his
good-humoured way, on the hall floor.

" Only four," says he, pausing for breath.

" Only four," I return; " but good all, eh ? "

Doubled up with irrepressible laughter I left, im, for
1 was obliged to hurry on, and couldn't stay till he had
recovered.

Up an avenue, across a bridge, over a piece of water
where a miniature yacht was at anchor, I came upon
the Viking Brett, R.A., in a tent refreshing himself and
a youthful assistant with a lively game of skipping-rope.

" What cheer, Skipper ?—and his boy! " I shouted. A
lovely garden, a perfect Eden! "I see you're under
canvass, as usual."

"Ay, ay, my lad! " he returned. "Nothing like it.
Let's make it three bells, and avast heaving! Belay
there! Teo ho!" And so we went down into the cabin
to lunch. His toast was '' A fair wind—and a good sale ! "
Grog was served out all round, and after drinking the
Skipper's health and partaking of junk and salt beef, I
weighed anchor (not much more than before luncheon),
and getting aboard H.M.S. Bukjomprke, put about, luffed,
got on the port tack, and, Bukjomprke answering tke
helm, we made for the Frith.

A cordon of police was about the door to keep off the
crowd. Giving Bukj omprhe in charge, I opened my cloak,
showed my brilliant order—inscribed m diamonds "Pass
one to the Studio"—and was at once ushered into the
Artist's Sanctum. Royal Highnesses, Dukes, and
Duchesses were there, but towering far above them all
was the Great Colour Moralist, J. W. Frith, R.A.
_ " Come," he whispered to me, " come into my Sanctis-
simissimum, and I '11 show you my chef d'eeuvre."

Then we retired from the giddy aristocratic crowd.
The Great Moral Colourist touched a jewelled button,
and a tray laden with . . . . but no matter; to
say more were to betray confidential hospitality. A few
choice , spirits looked in: tken aU was bumpers and.
banjos. Don't tell me that Frith, R.A., is a dry
colourist. I saw no more pictures that night. But if
the works of Frith, B..A., this year are not the best,
the truest-to-naturest, the in a general way superla-
tivest that ever were seen, then am I very much mistaken.

After this I rode round to the houses of several other
distinguished Artists, including Sant, It.A., who showed
me rows of pictures, but "no rows without a thorn,"
and then it was, as the public will see in May—" We
May be happy yet," he sang merrily. Then I looked in
on Mr. Burgess. After Burgess could I do Moore ?
No—so parting with Bukj omprhe to Colin Hunter, who
will find him useful for the Colin Deep Harriers, I bade
farewell to the Artists, and finished was the inspection
of The Grand All-Bounder,

Benevolence and Boots.—Success to Mr. Chance,
the Police Magistrate, in the beneficent operation of
raising a fund to provide boots for poor children. But
unhappily the boots may be provided, and the children,
as well as Mr. Chance's endeavour, yet remain bootless.
For several years Mr. Francis Peek gave £1,000 yearly
with the same intention, but to small purpose. Although
the money was disbursed by means of the Charity Or-
ganisation Society, "it was found that in about half
the cases the boots were speedily pawned." Pop went
the boots, up the spout—difficulty of boot distribution
two to one. Again, in the experience of a Board School
"a benevolent person provided boots for two poor
children, with the result that, for weeks after, dozens of
the other children came without boots in the expectation
that they, too, would be provided with boots by the
same benevolent agency." Teste, "W.," bearing wit-
ness in the Post. Sad, to see how the aims of charity are
apt to be frustrated by recipients presumed to be honest
who turn out no better than freebooters.

" Sink or Swim ? "—Which will it be, with the Mem-
ber for Cork to support him ?

" Quis Separabit ?"—W. E. G.

VOL. XC.

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