Life, 1895-08-29 · page 7 of 16
Life — August 29, 1895 — page 7: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# Analysis of Life Magazine Page 135 This page contains a satirical narrative about a painter and Mrs. Van Tinkleton's portrait, accompanied by illustrations. The main joke centers on the painter's dishonesty: he claims he hasn't finished the portrait and won't take payment, but admits he actually stopped painting halfway through the face to avoid having to complete it—essentially a con to keep her money while appearing virtuous. The accompanying illustrations and poem ("My Lady," "The School of Sparta," and "A Very Simple Thing to Do") appear unrelated vignettes typical of Life's format. The satire mocks both artistic pretension and the gullibility of wealthy patrons, a common target of early 20th-century American humor magazines.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
“Oh, it’s too late to take it back now!" “I'm not taking it back.” “Well, then, why are you painting her portrait?” “ For money.” “T'll believe that when I see her husband's check.” “You don't really think——" “It's a notorious fact that Mr. Van Tinkleton happened in on you and found the canvas barely touched, although his wife had given you thirteen sittings !" “ Thirteen is an unlucky number !"” “ You had only painted in half the face.” “It was finished down to the lips!” “Yes, A nice place to stop work—for a while!” “ Really you're not in earnest!" I expos- tulated, “Well at least I'm glad Mrs. Van Tinkle- ton’s portrait is finished, and I'll be gladder when Mrs. Pankgor’s is.” “So will 1.” “ Honestly?” “Yes.” A wild hope seized my heart and carried it away and me with it. My voice trembled as I said: “ Mrs. Turnbull—” “No, you mustn't.” “ Mustn’t what?” “ Say what you are going to.” “ What am I going to say?” “Mrs. Van Tinkleton,” announced the maid. Somehow or other she didn’t seem so cool as usual, or else I wasn't. “Not at——” began Mrs. Turnbull, but stopped as the lady herself entered. “Only a moment ; I won't keep you a moment,” she said on seeing me—which I thought very bad taste in her. But ata signal from Mrs. T., which there was no mistaking, she held out her hand, but I vowed I was just leaving, and took my departure. Clyde Fitch. TRANSFERRED. PRESS my suit, to call on her My trowsers are in creases ; I call on her to press my suit, And tind her scorn increases. HE benighted barbarian, in accordance with the time- honored custom of his tribe, lay in wait in the grass, waiting for the approach of the maiden whom he had chosen to woo, As soon as she passed, he arose, and with one blow of the large and knotty club he carried, felled her to the earth. She awoke from the consequent swoon, to find herself flung across his shoulder, as he proceeded toward his hut. Though dazed at first, she realized that she had been pro- posed to in the regular style. “ Dear me, Mr. Gwrrbblu,” she twittered, “ this is so sudden!" In her case there was really some excuse for the remark. 135 MY LADY. HE streets that were so dull and dark Are bright and fresh to-day ; The air, once hot and dusty, Is sweet as new-mown hay. The country has no beauty now, The city holds the crown : And this because My Lady Once more has come to town. S.C. £. THE SCHOOL OF SPARTA. “So VE IS BACK, AND YEZ A POSEY TO LOOK AT. Now, LOOK HERE, OL AM GOIN’ DOWN TO DTHE VILLAGE, AND IF OI FIND THAT WAN LESS THAN A DOZEN NAYGURS AND OITALIAN DAGOES IS not dthree-quarters chewed up, BE DTHE SAINTS OI'LL COME BACK HERE AND BURN YE UP IN DTHE SHTOVE!” A VERY SIMPLE THING TO DO.