Public-domain ebook
Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 108, April 6, 1895
by Various
Language: en431 downloads on Project Gutenberg
Subjects
In: Humour·British Literature·Journals
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #44887.
The opening · free to read
THE STUDIO SEEKER'S VADE MECUM.
Question. On what occasions do you particularly seek the studios?
Answer. On two Sundays in the year--the consecutive sabbaths devoted to the exhibition of proposed academy pictures by "Outsiders," and "A.'s," and "R.A.'s."
Q. Do you haunt the abodes of artists at other times?
A. Never; or, to cover all possibilities, hardly ever.
Q. Then you are not a lover of paintings for their own sake?
A. Certainly not; on the contrary, I am, as a rule, a better judge of frames than canvases.
Q. Then why do you go to St. John's Wood, Chelsea and West Kensington?
A. To see and be seen.
Q. Is it necessary to know the artist whose pictures are "on view"?
A. Certainly not. You can usually single him out by the absence of an overcoat, and can generally spot his wife and daughter by the non-appearance of promenading head-gear.
Q. What have you to do when you have discovered your involuntary host and hostess?
A. To shake hands with them with condescension, and partake of their refreshments with gusto.
Q. Will this invasion of the domestic circle be resented?
A. No; because it is highly probable that you will be mistaken for a newspaper Art critic, and respect for the Press in Art circles is universal.
Q. Are not artists, as a body, a community of highly accomplished gentlemen?
A. Certainly; and, consequently, on ordinary occasions entitled to well-merited respect.
Q. Then why should that "well-merited respect" be refused to them a month before the May opening of Burlington House?
A. Because it is the fashion.
Q. Surely this fashion does not exist amongst the better classes of the community?
A. To some extent; although it certainly is in greatest favour with cads and snobs, to say nothing of their female relations.
Q. Has any effort been made to stem this tide of unauthorised and unwelcome invasion?
A. In isolated cases the master of the studio has sought the protection of the police to keep his studio free of the unknown and the unknowable.
Q. But could not the scandal be removed with the assistance of the leaders of Society?
A. Assuredly. It would only have to become unfashionable to visit studios on the Show Sundays for the painter to be left at peace.
Q. Would that be pleasing to the artists?
A. That is the published opinion, but the matter has not been put absolutely to the test. However, the pleasure of the artists is not to be considered when the recreations of Brixton and Tooting are at stake.
Fools rush in where angels fear to tread. Well, this only shows our valiant disregard of danger, our readiness of initiative, our championship of forlorn hopes. We are the heaven-sent leaders of all "New" enterprises, whether literary, theatrical, or artistic. It is we who penetrate the mysteries of Bodleyosophy, Beardsleyotechny, and Yellow Astrology. We are the real and only Mahatmaniacs, Sexomaniacs, Miasmaniacs. Among our ranks you will find the Women who Did, the anticonjuGallias, the shedonKeynotes, and all their attendant and Discordant tribe of Jack-asses. We are the elect and proper bell-wethers of mankind. Come to us, then, for guidance.
Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise. Folly is therefore the true wisdom. However, this is an Oscarian paradox, which the Divine WILLIAMS has previously plagiarised, and enlarged on at some length, so we will pass on.
Fools build houses, but wise men live in them. Exactly so; we are the architects of this generation. The wise man depends on us for his roof and lodging; and without us he would be homeless. We have built "Snookson's Folly" and "Babel Mansions"--half of London, in fact. The jerry-builders have done the rest.
A fool and his money are soon parted. A compliment to our open-handed and indiscriminate generosity. It is we who swell the subscription list for the last new gold mine or building society; who subsidise insolvent South American Republics; who support the mendicant tramp and the deserving blackmailer.
There is no fool like an old fool. That is, the quality of folly improves with keeping, like that of wine. The seniors of our class are thoroughly reliable old fools, and Past Grand Masters in the art of ineptitude. We, fools as we are, know how to pay the proper respect that is due to senility and second-childishness.
A fool at forty is a fool indeed. This is a corollary of the preceding aphorism, for it is only at the age of two-score that we attain to years of full indiscretion. We develop later than the rest of humanity; we undergo a severe probation before our claim to the title of complete nincompoop is recognised. Before forty there is yet a chance that the budding ninny may desert, and degenerate into a prig, a Philistine, or a physician. After that age he is safe, and can be depended on for unwisdom, whereas your ordinary wiseacre cuts his back teeth and graduates in common-sense at twenty-one.
Lastly, _Fools stand in slippery places_--where wise men tumble down; but this needs no further illustration than that provided years ago by C. K., in Mr. Punch's pages.
NOT FOR THEIR "BEN."--Judging from some of the evidence at the recent trial of Tillett v. "_The Morning_" (Limited), it probably occurred to the unemployed dockers that they might have been well employed in "docking" B. T.'s salary.
Sportsman (who has been training a "Dark 'Un" of his own for the "Grand National"). "THERE, MY BOY, THERE'S A FIFTY TO ONE CHANCE FOR YOU! NOW, JUST YOU TAKE MY ADVICE, AND GET ON AT ONCE!"
Little Greensmith. "GET ON, EH? THANKY! PREFER TO SEE THE LAD ON HIM, THANKY!"]
Not the Dropped Pilot now![A] The circling years Bring their revenges, and to-day he stands, Age-bowed but firm, amidst the ringing cheers Of the young Monarch's mailed Germanic bands; And with proud patience takes, from lesser hands, The proffered Symbol-sword! Grim face, with years and labours scarred and scored, What marvel should those lines relax awhile To a Saturnian smile?
Splendid old Sword-smith, WIELAND of our day, Bestwielder of the matchless steel you made, This "Sword of Honour" is but baby play Compared with that tremendous Balsung-blade Forged by the mightiest master of his trade Since the great Norseman wrought, For the fierce battle-field where Titans fought. What may the shouting young AMILIAS know Of its great swashing blow?
He prates of Brandenburg, Iron and Blood, In swelling royal rhetoric, but you hear The clash of squadrons in war's sternest mood In that "great building-time"; and the boy-cheer Of him who, eager the State-bark to steer, Snatched from your hands the helm, Impetuous Palinurus of the realm,-- That cheer seems bitter and belated now, Hollow, all sound and show!
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