GOING TO THE BAD
Reading edition
All the way from the National Gallery Unto the Royal Academy As I walked, I was guilty of raillery, Which I felt was very bad o' me. Thinking of art's disasters, Still sinking to deeper abysses, I said, "From the Old Masters Why go to the new misses?"
PREHISTORIC PEEPS
A visit to an artist's studio.
He. "Awfully jolly concert, wasn't it? Awfully jolly thing by that fellow—what's his name?—something like Doorknob."
She. "Doorknob! Whom do you mean? I only know of Beethoven, Mozart, Wagner, Handel——"
He. "That's it! Handel. I knew it was something you caught hold of!"
OUR ARTIST
"If you please, sir, here's the printer's boy called again!"
"Oh, bother! Say I'm busy."
"'Tis hard to give the hand where the heart can never be!"
SONGS AND THEIR SINGERS
"Only this"
SONGS AND THEIR SINGERS
Horse Dealer. "Did that little mare I sold you do for you, sir?"
Nervous Horseman. "Nearly!"
"Optics."
Lecturer. "Now let anyone gaze steadfastly on any object—say, for instance, his wife's eye—and he'll see himself looking so exceedingly small, that——"
Strong-minded Lady (in front row). "Hear! Hear! Hear!"
"After the Fair." (Country cousin comes up in August to see the exhibition of pictures at the Royal Academy!).—Porter. "Bless yer 'art, we're closed!"
Country Cousin. "Closed! What! didn't it pay?!!"
Jones. "How is it we see you so seldom at the club now?"
Old Member. "Ah, well, you see, I'm not so young as I was; and I've had a good deal of worry lately; and so, what with one thing and another, I've grown rather fond of my own society."
Jones. "Epicure!"
The True Inwardness of Art.—Photographs by the Röntgen rays.
Man who has a Turn for Music.—An organ-grinder.
The Phonograph Cannot Lie.
German Dealer "Now, mein Herr! You've chust heerd your lofely blaying rebroduced to berfection! Won't you buy one?"
Amateur Flautist. "Are you sure the thing's all right?"
German Dealer. "Zertainly, mein Herr."
Amateur Flautist. "Gad, then, if that's what my playing is like, I'm done with the flute for ever."
Private Inquiry.
Surveyor of Taxes (to literary gent). "But surely you can arrive at some estimate of the amount received by you during the past three years for example. Don't you keep books?"
Literary Gent. (readily). "Oh dear no. I write them!"
Surveyor. "Ahem—I mean you've got some sort of accounts——"
Literary Gent. "Oh yes, lots"—(Surveyor brightens up)—"unpaid!"
"There's a boy wants to see you, sir." "Has he got a bill in his hand?" "No, sir." "Then he's got it in his pocket! Send him away!"
What our Artist has to put up with.
He. "By Jove, it's the best thing I've ever painted!—and I'll tell you what; I've a good mind to give it to Mary Morison for her wedding present!"
His Wifey. "Oh, but, my love, the Morisons have always been so hospitable to us! You ought to give her a real present, you know—a fan, or a scent-bottle, or something of that sort!"
TRIUMPH
Frame Maker (in ecstasies). "By Jove! Jemima—every one of 'em on the line again!"