PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 102.

March 12, 1892.

DOING THE OLD MASTERS.

(A Sketch at Burlington House.)

IN GALLERY NO. I.

The Usual Elderly Lady (who judges every picture solely by its subject). "No. 9. Portrait of Mrs. BRYANSTON of Portman. By GAINSBOROUGH." I don't like that at all. Such a disagreeable expression! I can't think why they exhibit such things. I'm sure there's no pleasure in looking at them!

Her Companion (who finds no pleasure in looking at any of them). No, I must say I prefer the Academy to these old-fashioned things. I suppose we can get a cup of tea here, though?

An Intelligent Person. "Mrs. BRYANSTON of Portman." Sounds like a made-up name rather, eh? Portman Square, and all that, y'know!

"My dear fellow, as if it was possible to mistake his touch!"

His Friend (with a touching confidence in the seriousness of the authorities). Oh, they wouldn't do that sort of thing here!

A Too-impulsive Enthusiast. Oh, JOHN, look at that lovely tiger up there! Isn't the skin marvellously painted, and the eyes so natural and all! It's a Landseer of course!

John. Catalogue says STUBBS.

The Enth. (disenchanted). STUBBS? I never heard of him. But it's really rather well done.

The Man who is a bit of a Connoisseur in his way (arriving at a portrait of Mrs. BILLINGTON). Not a bad Romney, that.

His Friend (with Catalogue). What makes you think it's a Romney?

The Conn. My dear fellow, as if it was possible to mistake his touch. (Thinks from his friend's expression, that he had better hedge.) Unless it's a Reynolds. Of course it might be a Sir Joshua, their manner at one period was very much alike—yes, it might be a Reynolds, certainly.

His Friend. It might be a Holbein—if it didn't happen to be a Gainsborough.

The Conn. (effecting a masterly retreat). Didn't I say Gainsborough? Of course that was what I meant. Nothing like Reynolds—nor Romney either. Totally different thing!

IN GALLERY NO. II.

Mr. Ernest Stodgely (before JAN STEEN's "Christening"). Now look at this, FLOSSIE; very curious, very interesting. Gives you such an insight into the times. This man, you see, is wearing a hat of the period. Remarkable, isn't it?

Miss Featherhead. Not so remarkable as if he was wearing a hat of some other period, ERNEST, is it?

The Elderly Lady (before a View of Amsterdam, by Van der Heyden). Now, you really must look at this, my dear—isn't it wonderful? Why, you can count every single brick in the walls, and the tiny little figures with their features all complete; you want a magnifying-glass to see it all! How conscientious painters were in those days! And what a difference from those "Impressionists," as they call themselves.

Her Comp. (apathetically). Yes, indeed; I wonder whether it would be better to get our tea here, or wait till we get outside?

The Eld. L. Oh, it's too early yet. Look at that poor hunted stag jumping over a dining-room table, and upsetting the glasses and things. I suppose that's LANDSEER—no, I see it's some one of the name of SNYDERS. I expect he got the idea from LANDSEER, though, don't you?

Her Comp. Very likely indeed, dear; but (pursuing her original train of thought) you get rather nice tea at some of these aërated bread-shops; so perhaps if we waited—(&c., &c.)

IN GALLERY NO. III.

Two Pretty Nieces with an Elderly Uncle (coming to "Apollo and Marsyas," by Tintoretto). What was the story of Apollo and Marsyas, Uncle?

The Uncle. Apollo? Oh, come, you've heard of him, the—er—Sun-God, Phoebus-Apollo, and all that?

His Nieces. Oh, yes, we know all that; but who was Marsyas, and what does the Catalogue mean by "Athena and three Umpires?"

The Uncle. Oh—er—hum! Didn't they teach you all that at school? Well they ought to have, that's all? Where's your Aunt—where's your Aunt?

Mr. Ernest Stodgely (before the Portrait of the Marchesa Isabella Grimaldi). There, FLOSSIE, don't you feel the greatness of that now? I'm curious to know how it impresses you!

Miss Featherhead. Well, I rather like her frock, ERNEST. How funny to think aigrettes were worn so long ago, when they've just gone out again, don't you know. It must have been difficult to kiss a person across one of those enormous ruffs, though, don't you think?

IN GALLERY NO. IV.

Mr. Schohorff (loudly). Ah, that's a picture I know well; seen it many a time in the Octagon Boudoir at dear old HATCHMENT's. But it looks better lighted up. I remember the last time I was down there they told me they'd been asked to lend it, but the Countess didn't seem to think (&c., &c.).

Mrs. Frivell (before "Death of Dido," by Liberale da Verona). Why is she standing on that pile of furniture in the courtyard, though?

Mr. F. Because Æneas had jilted her, and so she stabbed herself on a funeral pyre after setting fire to it, you see.

Mrs. F. (disapprovingly). How very odd. I thought they only did that in India. But who are all those people looking-on?

Mr. F. Smart people of the period, my dear. Of course Dido would send out invitations for a big function like that—Wind-up of the season—Farewell Reception—sure to be a tremendous rush for cards. Notice the evident enjoyment of the guests. They are depicted in the act of remarking to one another that their hostess is doing all in her power to make the thing go off well. Keen observer of human nature, old LIBERALE!

Mrs. F. Selfish creatures!

IN THE VESTIBULE.

Mrs. Townley-Ratton (about to leave with her husband, encounters her cousins, the Miss RURAL-RATTONS, who have just arrived). Why, SOPHY, MARY! how are you? this is too delightful! When did you come up? How long are you going to be in town? When can you come and see me?

Miss Sophy Rattan (answering the two last questions). Till the end of the week. What will be the best time to find you?

Mrs. T.R. (warmly). Oh, any time! I'm almost always in—except the afternoons, of course. I'm going out to tea or something every day this week!

Miss Sophy R. Well, how would some time in the morning—

Mrs. T.R. The morning? No, I'm afraid—I'm afraid it mustn't be the morning this week—so many things that one has to see to!

Mr. T.R. (lazily). You'd better all come and dine quietly some evening.

[He yawns, to tone down any excess of hospitality in this invitation.

Mrs. T.R. (quickly). No, that would be too cruel, when I know they'll want to go to a theatre every night! And besides, I really haven't a single free evening this week. But I must see if we can't arrange something. You really must drop me a line