No. 13. By Sir JOSHUA REYNOLDS. A Portrait of _The Marquis of Granby_. Presented, of course, by Mr. WELLER, Senior. Probably the original sign of the inn of which Mr. W. was proprietor.
No. 16. By GEORGE ROMNEY. _Portrait of Mrs. Farrer_. Charming. Might go Farrer and fare worse.
No. 24. By GEORGE! . . . ROMNEY. _Portrait of Lady Hamilton._ "Unfinished"--but perfect.
No. 38. "A Constable"--who arrests our attention. This, you may depend upon it, is a Constable _with a warrant_.
No. 50. By REMBRANT. Man guarding a hawk. Very graceful, but a Hawk-ward sort of person.
No. 51. By GERARD TERBURG. A lady, after taking something which has disagreed with her. "Prithee, why so pale?"
No. 68. By VAN DER HELST. It is called a "_Family Group_,"--probably in consequence of the wife being shown as presenting her husband _with a hare_.
No. 73. By DICK HALS. Regard the wondrous collars. It is "Collar Day." Must have been the work of two artists, as this could have been painted by no one HALS(!!)
No. 94. By Sir THOMAS LAURENCE, P.R.A. "_The bells are a ringing for Sarah._" Curtain rises and SARAH steps forward to sing.
No. 122. By JACOB JORDAENS. Splendid. "Try our stout, JANE!"
No. 126. By J. M. W. TURNER, R.A. "_Snowstorm._" Wonderful!! But where was the artist when he took it?
Do not leave without closely examining No. 181, by FRANÇOIS CLOUET, "_Portrait of a Princess_." And do not neglect the "gems of the collection" in the Water-colour Room. This is full of "interesting and remarkable cases" which have been fully reported in all the papers. The exhibition is open till March 16. Don't miss it.
_Little Binks._ "I ONLY CARE TO TALK TO WOMEN WHO LET ME MAKE LOVE TO THEM."
_Big Bounderson._ "_I_ ONLY CARE TO TALK TO WOMEN WHO MAKE LOVE TO _ME!_"]
BORN, FEBRUARY 13, 1849. DIED, JANUARY 24, 1895.
Gone!--like a meteor whelmed in night, Who should have shone as fame's fixed star! Unwelcome loss, when sons of light So few and so infrequent are. To flare athwart the startled sky, A prodigy portentous, fills The vision of the vulgar eye, The common soul with wonder thrills. And much of meteoric glare Seemed herald of that steadier course, Which, drawing less the general stare, Spoke to the wise of light and force. Now all's extinct in early gloom, Eclipsed in shadow premature. A brilliant soul, a bitter doom! And who shall read with judgment sure The secret of the light that failed, The mystery of the fallen star? Though whilom worshippers have railed, Though clingers to the conqueror's car Reviled a vanquished victor's name, The brightness of that brief career Defies the dullards who defame, Confounds the incompetents who sneer. But yesterday, in sooth it seems, The promise of the platform's pride Inspired a Party's youthful dreams, And filled to flood their hope's high tide. Now all is hushed,--save the sad voice Of admiration and regret, Which, spite of faction's spleenful noise, Ne'er failed stout son of England yet!