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 to yield to the promptings of their lower nature, were they to hearken to the Old Man within them, fearful massacres would occur in St. John’s Wood, and Campden Hill, and round Holland House.  An alarmed public and a powerless police would behold vast ladies of wealth, and maidens fair, and wild critics with eye-glasses speeding, at a furious pace, along certain roads, pursued by painters armed to the teeth with palette knives and mahlsticks.

This is what would occur if academicians and others gave way to the natural passions provoked by criticism and general demeanour on Show Sunday.  But it is a proof of the triumph of civilization that nothing of this kind occurs.  Peace prevails in the street and studio, and at the end of the day the artist must feel much as the critic does after the private view at the Royal Academy.  The artist has been having a private view of the public on its good behaviour, and that wild contempt of the bourgeois which burns in every artist’s breast must reach its highest temperature.  However, the holidays are beginning, the working season is over, and that reflection, doubtless, helps the weary painter through his ordeal.  But his friends also have to bear a good deal if they happen not to like his performances.  They must feign admiration as well as they may, and the sun of Show Sunday goes down on a world rather glad that it is well over.

Lord Beaconsfield once said at an Academy dinner that originality was the great characteristic of English art.  So little was he supposed to have spoken seriously that another, of whose ceasing to perorate there is no prospect, characterized his criticism in language so strong that it cannot well be repeated.  Let us admit that Lord Beaconsfield was either mistaken, or that, like the Consul Aulus, “he spake a bitter jest.”  Our artists, when they have found