ROUND ABOUT TOWN.
The Diploma Gallery at the Royal Academy.
A short time since “A Musical Joke by Mozart, played at some Promenade Concerts, attracted all London to hear it. The thousands who delighted in the pleasantry, if they visited Burlington House
between the hours of ten and four, would find another tour de force of a similar character. All they would have to do would be to ask their way to the Diploma Gallery. “When found, they might make
a note of” what may be aptly termed a “piece of pictorial waggery. ”
On the occasion of my visit I was kindly attended (“ in my mind’s eye, Horatio ”) by the spectral figure of a typical Royal Academician, who was good enough to act as a guide.
“We have managed to hide the directing placard behind apillar, ” chuckled this amusing personage, as I ascended some stone steps. “When the Public can’t find it, they do grow so wild! ”
Smiling good-naturedly at the joke, I pushed open a door, and found myself in a dimly-lighted passage leading to a dark staircase. “You will have to go to the very top before you come to our little comicalities, ” was the spectral commentary. It was true enough.
I laboured up and up until, out of breath, I reached a landing, upon which was placed a plaster-cast which I pretended to examine with the greatest curiosity.
“What a humbug you are! ” was whispered in my ear. “ You
know you can’t see it! Do you think we should have put it there if we had believed for a moment that you could? Excelsior! Plenty more steps before you come to us! ”
Again I laboured on, and found another plaster-cast, which I learnt was the same as the first — Cupid and Psyche, by Gibson.
“Funny notion that, eh? ” I heard. “Pity we hadn’t more of them! But as we had only two, we put both of them in corners,
close together, in the dark! Come, you must smile at that piece of drollery! ”
I stumbled on, and encountered more plaster-casts. So far as I could make out, they appeared to be busts of nobody in particular, grouped round the model of a horse that would have been the very
thing for a sign outside a farrier’s shop. Another effort and I was in the Gallery.
There were three rooms. On my left, amongst some statues, sat the genius of the place. He wore a cap drawn down close over his ears, a horse-cloth thrown over his shoulders, and a blanket tucked comfortably round his legs. He was seated on a chair, reading a daily paper, and
seemed to be suffering greatly from the draught. Beside him (under a towel) was a suit of livery, apparently ready to be assumed at a moment’s notice, on the approach of Royalty or other visitors of distinction. He looked at me as I entered, as if he were unaccustomed to the presence of strangers, and then resumed his reading.
“ You can see, from the unconventional costume of our custodian, that the Public do not patronise us as they ought to do, ” grumbled my Spectre-guide. “ In fact, our janitor has the place very much to himself. He must know all our little jokes by heart. I verily
believe that even the ‘ Battle of Chillianwallah, ’ at the end of the Gallery, by this time has ceased to move him to uproarious merriment! ”
Leaving the official in undress behind me, I walked quickly into the last room. It contained an enormous Cartoon of Blucher meeting Wellington after Waterloo, hung in such a manner as to bring out in full relief the rich absurdities of Mr. Jones’s martial masterpiece. A strange mixture of dying Guardsmen, military sycophants, and Generals prancing unconcernedly amongst the wounded formed a striking contrast to a small and compact set piece that in the palmy days of Astley’s Amphitheatre would have been undoubtedly “billed” as “Exciting Combats, one hundred trained Auxiliaries, concluding with a grand display of Fireworks, and the triumphant Victory of the gallant British Arms — for this night only! ” The two battle-pieces were toned down with a mysterious piece of stonework labelled “Antique Fragment of a Female
Draped Figure. ” Further on was an arm-chair under a glass-case, that seemed to be proud of its anonymity.
“We don’t tell them what it is, or to whom it belonged, or how it came here, ” explained the Spectre. “We do so like to puzzle them! ”
I now entered the Centre Room. On one side were the efforts of past Academicians — on the other the works of more modern Masters.
I selected the latter for examination. The study of a gigantic hand first attracted my attention. It was worked out in great detail in shadow on the wall in conjunction with the reflection of a nose which had been introduced most successfully to heighten the effect. The hand belonged to Mr. Cope, but I could not discover the proprietor of the nose. Not far from this quaint fancy was a merry family party
engaged, apparently, in a game of romps. The son had put his head on the table ready to cry forfeits; one of his sisters, evidently
preferring blindman’s-buff, had covered her eyes with an apron; while a second damsel whispered into the ear
of the good old mother one of a series of “cross questions and crooked
answers” destined presently to set the
table in a roar. In the meanwhile the genial old father politely requested a young lady carrying a doll to with
draw into the garden for a few minutes, while he prepared to surprise her with a little “dumb crambo. ” I
was heartily admiring this pleasant picture of “Christmas Time at Holly
bush Farm, ” when I was surprised to notice the composition labelled, for some unaccountable reason, “The Outcast. ”
And now I came to a characteristic work by that greatest of artists, Mr. Solomon Hart. It was called “An Early Reading of Shakspeare, ” and was chiefly remarkable
for the Reader’s legs, which were of abnormal proportions. Leaving a waxwork group of “St. Gregory teaching his Chant” for the consideration of some unam
bitious imitator of Madame Tussaud, I came to a pic
torial protest against the views favoured by Sir Wil
frid Lawson. A lady (whose recent occupation was deli
cately hinted at in the tones of her nose) was rising from a wine-cellar, to kiss a semiintoxicated lover in the pre
sence of a decidedly “drunk and incapable” Father.
Turning from this “ Scene from the Two Gentlemen of Verona” (as the painful tableau was called), I gazed at an enormous picture of a salmon, a few mountains, a couple of boats, and a study of wide
awakes. This vast composition turned out to be “Letters and News
at the Loch side. ” The central fish was interesting, but I cannot conscientiously say that I admired the accessories.
I next noticed a picture of Mr. Frith (dressed for a lounge in the Park) busily engaged in sketching a sleeping crossing-sweeper.
Charmed with this study of real life, I turned to something more artificial. In a “Pleasant Corner ” I found a wax doll in a tenand-sixpenny doll’s house. Then came an old favourite. “Whither ”
introducing me once again to a portly mediæval Paterfamilias taking
a walk in his garden after his dinner. He was still accompanied by his daughter carrying a tin of biscuits. I could hear the girl murmur, as of old, “I do so wish Papa would return to the house for his
coffee, as he will wear his slippers! ” Then Mr. Hook showed me an incident in country life. A man was meeting a woman and a child in a lane, and exclaiming, on noticing that they both were wearing “big heads, ” “What, Boxing Day already! ” Lastly, I stumbled
upon a strange-looking person, biting his nails among some mountainous sponge-cakes, while a lion in the back-ground leisurely devoured a baby hippopotamus. I frankly admit I was perplexed to make head or tail of it.
“I knew you would never guess it! ” exclaimed my spectral Friend, who had been silent for some time. “ But look at the label, and you will be enlightened. ”
I obeyed the direction, and read, to my extreme astonishment, the simple word “Remorse. ” This last mystery unnerved me. I determined to fly before my confusion was completed.
“But you have not seen half the good things! ” exclaimed my shadowy Guide. “The old pictures are just as funny as the new;
and there is really a world of quiet humour in the arrangement of the back hair of a lion belonging to St. Jerome. It has been imitated in the toy-shops, but — ”
I angrily interrupted, and refused to go further.
“ But pray be reasonable, ” continued the well-meaning Phantom. “You cannot imagine what an absurd effect we obtain by mixing up the Gibson Gallery with the daubs of a century. You cannot think —”
But by this time I had escaped, and was once more in Piccadilly. As I hurriedly walked away, an old lady stopped me, and asked me where she could find the Chamber of Horrors?