slang as much as he does long hair and red waistcoats. He might be a
young barrister, only he is more polished; or a young doctor, only he is
more urbane. No doubt there exist men of the ancient species--rough-and-
ready men as strong as bargees, given to much tobacco, amateurs of porter
or shandygaff, great hunters of the picturesque, such wild folk as
Thackeray knew and Mr. Charles Keene occasionally caricatures. These are
the artists whom young ladies want to see, but they are not in great
force on Show Sunday. They rather look on that festival as a day of
national mourning and humiliation and woe. They do not care to have all
Belgravia or South Kensington let loose in their places. They do not
wish the public to gaze and simper at pieces which will probably be
enskied or rejected, or hung at a dangerous corner next a popular
picture.

No painter who is not of the most secure eminence can, perhaps, quite
enjoy Show Sunday. Many of his visitors know as much about Art as the
Fuegians do of white neckties. They come and gaze, and say, "How soft,
how sweet!" like Rosey Mackenzie, and have tea, and go away. Other
people offer amazing suggestions, and no one who thinks the pictures
failures quite manages to conceal his opinion. Poets are said to be fond
of reading their own poems aloud, which seems amazing; but then as they
read they cannot see their audience, nor guess how they are boring those
sufferers. The poet, like the domestic fowl which did not scream when
plucked, is "too much absorbed." But while his friends look at his
pictures, the painter looks at their faces, and must make many sad
discoveries. Like other artists, he does not care nearly so much for the
praise as he is dashed and discomfited by the slightest hint of blame. It
is a wonder that irascible painters do not run amuck among their own
canvases and their visitors on Show Sunday. That, at least, in Mr.
Browning's phrase, is "how it strikes a contemporary." Were the artists