Mr. Punch in Bohemia Part 18

_Impecunious Musician_ (_gloomily_). With my creditors. [_Exeunt severally._

TO BE SUNG AT CONCERT PITCH.--"The Tar's Farewell."

[Ill.u.s.tration: SAFE.--_Guest_ (_after a jolly evening_). "Good night, ol' fellah--I'll leave my boosh ous.h.i.+de 'door----"

_Bohemian Host._ "Au' right, m' boy--(_hic_)--n.o.borry'll toussh 'em--goo' light!!" [_Exeunt._]

CONSOLATIONS FOR THE UNHUNG

Now that the painful month of suspense in Studioland is at an end, it behoves us to apply our most soothing embrocation to the wounded feelings of geniuses whose works have boomeranged their way back from Burlington House. Let them remember:

That very few people really look at the pictures in the Academy--they only go to meet their friends, or to say they have been there.

That those who _do_ examine the works of art are wont to disparage the same by way of showing their superior smartness.

That one picture has no chance of recognition with fourteen hundred others shouting at it.

That all the best pavement-artists now give "one-man" shows. They can thus select their own "pitch," and are never ruthlessly skied.

That photography in colours is coming, and then the R.A. will have to go.

That Rembrandt, Holbein, Rubens and Vandyck were never hung at the summer exhibition.

That Botticelli, Correggio and t.i.tian managed to rub along without that privilege.

That the ten-guinea frame that was bought (or owed for) this spring will do splendidly next year for another masterpiece.

That the painter _must_ have specimens of his best work to decorate the somewhat bare walls of his studio.

That the best test of a picture is being able to live with it--or live it down--so why send it away from its most lenient critic?

That probably the _chef-d'oeuvre_ sent in was shown to the hanging committee up-side down.

That, supposing they saw it properly, they were afraid that its success would put the Academy to the expense of having a railing placed in front.

And finally, we would remind the rejected one that, after all, his bantling _has_ been exhibited in the R.A.--to the president and his colleagues engaged in the work of selection. Somebody at least looked at it for quite three seconds.

ART NOTE.--_The early Italian style._--An organ-grinder at five o'clock in the morning.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

[Ill.u.s.tration: OUR FLAT.--_Extract from Lady's Correspondence._ "----In fact, our reception was a _complete_ success. We had some excellent musicians. I daresay you will wonder where we put them, with such a crowd of people; but we managed _capitally_!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: SHOW SUNDAY.--_Vand.y.k.e Browne._ "Peace, my dear lady, peace and refinement, those are the two essentials in an artist's surroundings." [_Enter Master and Miss Browne. Tableau!_]

[Ill.u.s.tration: VARNIs.h.i.+NG DAY AMENITIES.--_Little Smudge._ "Of course, I know perfectly well my style isn't quite developed yet, but I feel I am, if I might so express it, in a _transition_ stage, don't you know,"

_Brother Brush_ ("_skied_" _this year_). "Ah! I see, _going from bad to worse_!"]

THE MIGHTY PEN

["With this little instrument that rests so lightly in the hand, whole nations can be moved.... When it is poised between thumb and finger, it becomes a living thing--it moves with the pulsations of the living heart and thinking brain, and writes down, almost unconsciously, the thoughts that live--the words that burn.... It would be difficult to find a single newspaper or magazine to which we could turn for a lesson in pure and elegant English."--_Miss Corelli in_ "_Free Opinions Freely Expressed_."]

O magic pen, what wonders lie Within your little length!

Though small and paltry to the eye You boast a giant's strength.

Between my finger and my thumb A living creature you become, And to the listening world you give "The words that burn--the thoughts that live."

Oft, when the sacred fire glows hot, Your wizard power is proved: You write till lunch, and nations not Infrequently are moved; 'Twixt lunch and tea perhaps you d.a.m.n For good and all, some social sham, And by the time I pause to sup-- Behold Carnegie crumpled up!

Through your unconscious eyes I see Strange beauty, little pen!

You make life exquisite to me, If not to other men.

You fill me with an inward joy No outward trouble can destroy, Not even when I struggle through Some foolish ignorant review;

Nor when the press bad grammar scrawls In wild uncultured haste, And which intolerably galls One's literary taste.

What are the editors about, Whom one would think would edit out The shocking English and the style Which every page and line defile?

There is, alas! no magazine, No paper that one knows To which a man could turn for clean And graceful English prose; Not even, O my pen, though you Yourself may write for one or two, And lend to them a style, a tone, A grammar that is all your own.

I see the shadows of decay On all sides darkly loom; Ma.s.sage and manicure hold sway, Cosmetics fairly boom; Old dowagers and budding maids Alike affect complexion-aids, While middle age with anxious care Dyes to restore its dwindling hair.

The time is out of joint, but still I am not hopeless quite So long as you exist, my quill, Once more to set it right.

Woman will cease from rouge, I think, Man pour his hair-wash down the sink, If you will yet consent to give "The words that burn--the thoughts that live."

A HINT FOR THE PUBLISHERS.

As the publis.h.i.+ng season will soon be in full play--which means that there will be plenty of work--we suggest the following as t.i.tles of books, to succeed the publication of "People I have Met," by an American:--

People I have taken into Custody, by a Policeman.