IN THE ROYAL ACADEMY.

They have not come! And ten is past,—

Unless, by chance, my watch is fast;

— Aunt Mabel surely told us “ten.”

I doubt if she can do it, then.

In fact, their train....

That is,— you knew.

How could you be so treacherous, Hugh?

Nay;— it is scarcely mine, the crime,

One can n't account for railway-time!

Where shall we sit? Not here, I vote;—

At least, there's nothing here of note.

Then here we'll stay, please. Once for all,

I bar all artists,— great and small!

From now until we go in June

I shall hear nothing but this tune:—

Whether I like Long's “Vashti,” or

Like Leslie's “Naughty Kitty” more;

With all that critics, right or wrong,

Have said of Leslie and of Long....

No. If you value my esteem,

I beg you'll take another theme;

Paint me some pictures, if you will,

But spare me these, for good and ill....

“Paint you some pictures!” Come, that's kind!

You know I'm nearly colour-blind.

Paint then, in words. You did before;

Scenes at — where was it? Dustypoor?

You know....

I'll try.

But mind they're pretty

Not “hog hunts.”...

You shall be Committee,

And say if they are “out” or “in.”

I shall reject them all. Begin.

Here is the first. An antique Hall

( Like Chanticlere ) with panelled wall.

A boy, or rather lad. A girl,

Laughing with all her rows of pearl

Before a portrait in a ruff.

He meanwhile watches....

That's enough,

It wants “verve,” “brio,” “breadth,” “design,”...

Besides, it's English. I decline.

This is the next.‘ Tis finer far:

A foaming torrent ( say Braemar ).

A pony, grazing by a boulder,

Then the same pair, a little older,

Left by some lucky chance together.

He begs her for a sprig of heather....

— “Which she accords with smile seraphic.”

I know it,— it was in the “Graphic.”

Declined.

Once more, and I forego

All hopes of hanging, high or low:

Behold the hero of the scene,

In bungalow and palankeen....

What!— all at once! But that's absurd;—

Unless he's Sir Boyle Roche's bird!

Permit me —‘ Tis a Panorama,

In which the person of the drama,

Mid orientals dusk and tawny,

Mid warriors drinking brandy pawnee,

Mid scorpions, dowagers, and griffins,

In morning rides, at noon-day tiffins,

In every kind of place and weather,

Is solaced... by a sprig of heather.

He puts that faded scrap before

The “Rajah,” or the “Koh-i-noor”....

He would not barter it for all

Benares, or the Taj-Mahal....

It guides,— directs his every act,

And word, and thought — In short — in fact —

I mean...

Look, Helen, that's the heather!

( Too late! Here come both Aunts together. )

What heather, Sir?

And why... “too late?”

— Aunt Dora, how you've made us wait!

Do n't you agree that it's a pity

Portraits are hung by the Committee?