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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, April 23, 1892
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, April 23, 1892" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.

VOL. 102, APRIL 23, 1892***


VOL. 102

April 23, 1892



  Oh, to be in London now that April's there,
  And whoever walks in London sees, some morning, in the Square,
  That the upper thousands have come to Town,
  To the plane-trees droll in their new bark gown,
  While the sparrows chirp, and the cats miaow
  In London--now!
  And after April, when May follows
  And the black-coats come and go like swallows!
  Mark, where yon fairy blossom in the Row
  Leans to the rails, and canters on in clover,
  Blushing and drooping, with her head bent low!
  That's the wise child: she makes him ask twice over,
  Lest he should think she views with too much rapture
  Her first fine wealthy capture!
  But,--though her path looks smooth, and though, alack,
  All will he gay, till Time has painted black
  The _Marigold_, her Mother's chosen flower,--
  Far brighter is my _Heartsease_, Love's own dower.

       *       *       *       *       *

A WANT.--"There is only one thing," a visitor writes to us, "that I
missed at Venice, S.W. I've never been to the real place, which is
the Bride, or Pride, of the Sea, I forget which, but, as I was saying,
there's only one thing I miss, and that is the heather. Who has not
heard of 'the moor of Venice'? And I daresay good shooting there too,
with black game and such like. I only saw pigeons flying, who some
one informed me are the pigeons of SAM MARK. Next time I go, I shall
inquire at the Restaurant for fresh Pigeon Pie. However, if Mr.
KIRALFY will take a hint, he will, in August provide a moor. It will
add to the gaiety of the show. 'The moor the merrier,' eh?"

       *       *       *       *       *


  MRS. GRUNDY, good woman, scarce knew what to think
  About the relation 'twixt Drama and Drink.
  Well, give Hall--and Theatre--good wholesome diet,
  And all who attend will be sober and quiet!

       *       *       *       *       *

for short--wrote to the _Times_ complaining that the result of
the splendid weather for the first ten days of the month was the
reproduction of "summer effluvium rank and offensive" in Piccadilly.
Poor Piccadilly! Oh, its "offence is rank," and Miss DORA might add,
quoting to her father from another scene in _Hamlet_, "And smells so.
Pa'!" West-Enders, in a dry summer, must he prepared to have "a high
old time of it."

       *       *       *       *       *



_Domestic_ (_lately received into the Plymouth Brotherhood_). "OH NO,

       *       *       *       *       *



  I'm the maker of a Soap, which I confidently hope
  In the advertising tournament will win,
  And remain the fit survival, having vanquished every rival
  Which is very detrimental to the skin.

  I will now proceed to show, what the public ought to know,
  Unless they would be blindly taken in.
  How in every soap but mine certain qualities combine
  To make it detrimental to the skin.

  But surely at this date it is needless I should state
  That the cheaper soaps are barely worth a pin,
  For they all contain a mixture, either free or as a fixture,
  Which is very detrimental to the skin.

  And every cake you buy is so charged with alkali,
  To soda more than soap it is akin;
  It is really dear at last, for it wastes away so fast.
  And is very detrimental to the skin.

  The public I must warn of the colours that adorn
  The soaps ambitious foreigners bring in;
  They are often very pretty, but to use them is a pity,
  For they're very detrimental to the skin.

  There are soaps which you can see through. I ask, What can it be
  Is it resin, or some other form of sin?
  There are soaps which smell too strong, and of course that must be
  And extremely detrimental to the skin.

  And too much fat's injurious, and so are soaps sulphureous,
  Though they say they keep the hair from growing thin;
  They may keep a person's hair on, like the precious oil of AARON,
  And yet be detrimental to his skin.

  In short, the only soap which is fit for Prince or Pope
  (I have sent some to the KAISER at Berlin)
  Is the article I sell you. Don't believe the firms who tell you
  It is very detrimental to the skin.

       *       *       *       *       *

A LIQUOR QUESTION.--Why does a toper--especially when "before the
beak"--always say that he was "in drink," when he evidently means that
the drink was in him? The only soaker on record who could rightly be
said to be "in drink" was,

  "Maudlin _Clarence_ in his Malmsey butt."

He was "in liquor" with a vengeance. But less lucky wine-bibbers need
not be illogical as well as inebriate.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. GOSCHEN'S BUDGET.--"From a fiscal point of view, the Tobacco
receipts are extremely good." So unlike JOKIM. Of course, as he never
loses a chance of a _jeu de mot_, what he must have said was, that
"the Tobacco 'returns' are extremely good." "A birthday Budget,--many
happy 'returns,'" he observed jocosely to PRINCE ARTHUR, "quite japing
times!" And off he went for his holiday; and, weather permitting,
as he reclines in his funny among the weeds, he will gently murmur,
"_Dulce est desipere in smoko_."

       *       *       *       *       *



    ["--The curious tendency towards imitation which is observed
    whenever some specially sensational crime is brought into the
    light of publicity."--_Morning Post_.']

  NARCISSUS? _He_, that foul ill-favoured brute,
  A fevered age's most repulsive fruit,
  The murderous coxcomb, the assassin sleek?
  Stranger comparison could fancy seek?

  Truly 'tis not the self-admiring boy
  Nymph Echo longed so vainly to enjoy;
  Yet the old classic fable hath a phase
  Which seems to fit the opprobrium of our days.
  Criminal-worship seems our latest cult,
  And this strange figure is its last result.
  Self-conscious, self-admiring, Crime parades
  Its loathly features, not in slumdom's shades,
  Or in Alsatian sanctuaries vile.
  No; peacock-posing and complacent smile
  Pervade the common air, and take the town.
  The glory of a scandalous renown
  Lures the vain villain more than wrath or gain,
  And cancels all the shame that should restrain:
  Makes murder half-heroic in his sight,
  And gilds the gallows with factitious light.

  And whose the fault? Sensation it is thine!
  The garrulous paragraph, the graphic line,
  Poster and portrait, telegram and tale,
  Make shopboy eager and domestics pale.
  Over the morbid details workmen pore,
  Toil's favourite pabulum and chosen lore,
  Penny-a-liners pile the horrors up,
  On which the cockney _gobe-mouche_ loves to sup,
  And paragraph and picture feed the clown
  With the foul garbage that has gorged the town.
  "Vice is a monster of such hideous mien
  As to be hated needs but to be seen."
  So sang the waspish satirist long ago.
  Now Vice is sketched and Crime is made a show.
  A hundred eager scribes are at their heel
  To tell the public how they look and feel,
  How eat and drink, how sleep and smoke and play.
  Murder's itinerary for a day,
  Set forth in graphic phrase by skilful pens,
  With pictures of its face, its favourite dens,
  Its knife or bludgeon, pistol, paramour,
  Will swell the swift editions hour by hour,
  More than high news of war or of debate,
  The death of heroes or the throes of state.
  From club-room to street-corner runs the cry
  After the newest fact, or latest lie:
  The hurrying throng unfolded broad-sheets grasp,
  And read with goggled eyes and lips a-gasp,
  Blood! Blood! More Blood! It makes hot lips go pale,
  But gives the sweetest zest to the unholy tale.

  What wonder if the Horror, homaged thus
  By frenzied eagerness and foolish fuss,
  Swells to a hideous self-importance, struts
  In conscious dignity, and gladly gluts
  With vanity's fantastic tricks the herd
  Whose pulses first by murderous crime it stirred.
  Narcissus-like, the slayer bends to trace
  Within Sensation's flowing stream its face,
  And, self-enamoured, smiles a loathsome smile
  Of fatuous conceit and gloating guile;
  Laughs at the shadow of the lifted knife,
  And thinks of all things save its victim's life.
  The "Noisy Nymph," the Echo of our times,
  The gossip, with an eager ear for crimes,
  Lurks, half-admiring, all-recording there,
  Watching Narcissus with persistent stare,
  And ready note-book. Nothing but a Voice?
  No, but its babblings travel, and rejoice
  A myriad prurient ears with noisome news,
  Fit only for the shambles and the stews.
  These hear, admire, and sometimes imitate!--

  Narcissus is a danger to the State,
  And Echo hardly less. Vain-glorious crime;
  That pestilent portent of a morbid time,
  Would flourish less could sense or law avail
  To strangle coarse Sensation's clamorous tale,
  Silence the "Noisy Nymph," for half crime's ill
  Would end were babbling Echo's voice but still.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "THE MISSING CIPHER."



       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *

FETTERED.--In reply to the Unemployed Deputation which found
employment in paying a visit to the L.C.C. at Spring Gardens, Messrs.
BURNS and BEN TILLETT (Alderman) intimated that as Mr. POWER, the
U.D.'s spokesman, was not a member of the L.C.C., that body was
Power-less to assist them in their trouble. A nasty time of it had
the Labour Candidates on this occasion. Nothing like putting men of
Radical revolutionary tendencies into responsible positions.

       *       *       *       *       *

A SHADY VALET.--One DONALD CROSS was a Valet in the service of an
absent master, whose best clothes and jewellery DONALD wore, while
he kept his flat well aired by giving little supper-parties to young
ladies who took him at his own valuation,--for a very superior swell.
Alas! he was but a _valet de sham_! "Cross purposes," but Magistrate
"disposes"; and the once happy Valet is in the shade for the next six

       *       *       *       *       *



    _Before Supper the proceedings are rather decorous than
    lively; the dancers in fancy dress forming a very decided
    minority, and appearing uncomfortably conscious of their
    costume. A Masker got up as a highly realistic Hatstand,
    hobbles painfully towards a friend who is disguised as a
    huge Cannon._

_The Hatstand_ (_huskily, through a fox's mask in the centre of his
case, to the Cannon_). Just a trifle slow up to the present, eh?

_The Cannon_ (_shifting the carriage and wheels to a less
uncomfortable position._) Yes, it don't seem to me as lively as
usual--_drags_, don't you know.

_The Hatstand_ (_heroically_). Well, we must wake 'em up, that's
all--put a little _go_ into the thing!

    [_They endeavour to promote gaiety by crawling through the
    crowd, which regards them with compassionate wonder._

_A Black Domino_ (_to a Clown, who is tapping the barometer on the
Hatstand's back_). Here, mind how you damage the furniture, SAMMY, it
may be here on the hire system.

    [_The Hatstand executes a cumbrous caper by way of repartee,
    and stumbles on._

_A Folly_ (_to a highly respectable Bedouin in a burnous and gold
spectacles_). Well, all I can say is, you don't seem to me to behave
much _like_ an Arab!

_The Bedouin_ (_uneasily, as he waltzes with conscientious
regularity_). Don't I? How _ought_ I to behave then?

_The Folly_. _I_ should have thought you'd jump about and howl, the
way Bedouins _do_ howl. _You_ know!

_The Bed._ (_dubiously_). Um--well, you see, my dear, I--I don't feel
_up_ to that sort of thing--_before_ supper.

_The Folly_ (_losing all respect for him_). No--nor yet after it. I
expect you've told some old four-wheel caravan to come and fetch
you home early, and you'll turn into your little tent at the usual
time--that's the sort of wild Bedouin _you_ are! Don't let me keep
you. [_She leaves him._

_The Bed._ (_alone_). If she only knew the absolute _horror_ I have of
making myself conspicuous, she wouldn't expect it!

_Mephistopheles_ (_to a Picador_). This was the only thing I could get
to go in. How do you think it suits me?

_The Picador_ (_with candour_). Well, I must say, old fellow, you _do_
look a beast!

    [_Mephisto appears wounded._

_A Masker_ (_with his face painted brown, and in a costume of coloured
paper decorated with small boxes and packets, to a Blue Domino_). You
see what _I_ am, don't you? The Parcels Post! Had a _lot_ of trouble
thinking it out. Look at my face, for instance, I made _that_ up, with
string--marks and all, to look like a brown-paper parcel.

_The Blue Domino_. Pity you haven't got something _inside_ it, isn't

_The Parcels Post_ (_feebly_). Don't you be too sharp. And it really
is a first-rate idea. All these parcels now--I suppose there must be
fifty of 'em at least--

_The Blue Domino_. Are there? Well, I wish you'd go and get sorted
somewhere else. I haven't time for it myself.

_Sardonic Spectator_ (_pityingly--to a Masker in a violent
perspiration, who represents Sindbad carrying the Old Man of the
Sea_). 'Ow you _are_ worrying yourself to be sure!

_A Polite Stranger_ (_accosting an Individual who is personifying the
London County Council by the aid of a hat surmounted by a sky-sign,
a cork bridge and a tin tramcar, a toy Clown and a butterfly on his
chest, a portrait of Mlle. Zoeo on his back, a miniature fireman under
an extinguisher, and a model crane, which he winds up and down with
evident enjoyment_). Excuse me, Sir, but would you mind showing us
round you--or is there a catalogue to your little collection?

    [_The L.C.C. maintains a dignified silence._

_Pierrot_ (_critically to Cleopatra_). Very nice indeed, my dear
girl,--except that they ought to have given you a serpent to carry,
you know'

_Cleopatra_. Oh, they _did_--only I left it in the Cloak-room.

_A Man with a False Nose_ (_to a Friend who is wearing his natural
organ_). Why, I thought you said _you_ were coming in a nose?

_His Friend_. So I did (_he produces an enormous nose and cheeks from
his tail-pocket_). But it's no mortal use; the minute I put it on
I'm recognised (_plaintively_). And I gave one-and-ninepence for the
beastly thing, too!

_Young Man of the Period_ (_meeting a female acquaintance attired
in ferns, rock-work, and coloured shells, illuminated by portable
electric light_). Hul-lo! You _are_ a swell! And what are _you_
supposed to be?

_The Lady in Rock-work_. Can't you see? I'm a Fairy Grotto. Good idea,
isn't it?

_He_. Rippin'! But what the mischief have you got on your shoulder?

_She_. Oh, that's an aquarium--real goldfish. See!

    [_Exhibiting them with pride._

_He_. Ain't you lettin' 'em sit up rather late? They _will_ be chippy
to-morrow--off colour, don't you know.

_She_. Will they? What ought I to do for them, then?

_He_. Do? Oh, just put a brandy-and-soda in their tank.

    _Later; Supper is going on in the Boxes and Supper-room, and
    the festivity has been further increased by the arrival of a
    party of Low Comedians and Music-Hall Stars. The Lancers have
    been danced with more abandonment, and several entirely new
    and original figures._

_The Chevalier Bayard_ (_at the Refreshment Bar--to a Watteau
Shepherdess_). I say, you come along and dance with me, will you?--and
look here, if you dance well, I'll give you a drink when it's over. If
you don t dance to please me, you'll get nothing. See?

_The Watteau Shepherdess_ (_with delicate disdain_). 'Ere, you go
along, you silly ass!

    [_Hits him with her crook._

_A Gentleman who has obviously supped_ (_catching hold of a passing
Acquaintance, whose hand he wrings affectionately_). Dear ole HUGHIE!
don't go away just yet. Shtop an' talk with me. Got lotsh er things
say to you, dear ole boy--mosh 'portant things! Shure you, you're the
on'y man in the wide world I ever kicked a care--cared a kick about.
Don't _you_ leave me, HUGHIE!

[Illustration: "Exit unsteadily towards Bar."]

_Hughie_ (_who is looking for his partner_). Not now, old man--can't
stop. See you later!

    [_He makes his escape._

_The Affect. G._ (_confidentially--to a Policeman_). Thash a very
dear ole pal o' mine, plishman, a _very_ dear ole pal. Worsht of him
ish--shimply imposhble get a lit' rational conversation with him. No
_sheriousness_ in his character!

    [_Exit unsteadily towards Bar, in blissful unconsciousness
    that somebody has attached a large false nose and spectacles
    to the buttons of his coat-tails._

_A Troubadour_ (_jealously--to an Arleguina_). No--but look here, you
might just as well say right put which costume you like best--mine
or--(_indicating a Cavalier on her other side_)--his.

_Arleguina_ (_cautiously--not desiring to offend either_). Well, I'd
rather be _him_--not as a _man_, I wouldn't--but, as _myself_, I'd
like to be _this_ one.

    [_Both appear equally satisfied and soothed by this
    diplomatic, but slightly mystic response._

_A Vivandière_ (_to a Martyr, who is shuffling along inside a
property-trunk, covered with twigs, and supposed to represent a
Bird in the Hand_). Well, that's _one_ way of coming _out_ to enjoy
yourself, I suppose!

_A Middle-aged Man_ (_wandering behind the Orchestra_). It's
beastly dull, that's what it is--none of the give-and-take
humour and practical fun you get in Paris or Vienna!... That's a
nice, simple-looking little thing in the seat over there. (_The
simple-looking little thing peeps at him, with one eye over her fan,
in arch invitation._) Gad, I'll go up and talk to her--it will be
something to _do_, at any rate--she looks as if she wouldn't mind.
(_He goes up._) Think I know your face--haven't we met before?

_The Simple Little Thing_ (_after an elaborate wink aside at a_
Fireman). Shouldn't wonder. Don't you run away yet. Sit down and
talk to me--do now. No, not _that_ side--try the arm-chair, it's more

_The M.M._ (_throwing himself gracefully into a well-padded chintz
chair_). Well, really--(_The chair suddenly digs him in the ribs with
one of its elbows_). Eh, look here now--'pon my--(_He attempts to
rise, and finds himself tightly pinioned by the arms of the chair._)
There's some confounded fool _inside_ this chair!

_The Simple Little Thing_ (_tickling him under the chin with her
fan_). Shouldn't call yourself names! I'm going--don't get up on
_my_ account. [_She goes off, laughing; a crowd collects and heartily
enjoys his situation._

_The M.M._ (_later--very red after his release_). If I could have
found a policeman, I'd have given that chair in custody! It's
scandalous to call _that_ coming in Fancy Dress! [_Exit indignantly._

       *       *       *       *       *



    SCENE--_A Street. Enter BROWN and JONES. They meet, and
    regard one another for a moment, fixedly. Then they salute one
    another respectfully._

_Brown._ I have been looking for you everywhere.

_Jones._ Then I am delighted to have met you.

_Brown._ I have said of you that you are a trickster, a scoundrel, a
fool, and an idiot!

_Jones._ Yes--and I have regretted the saying, because it shows to me
that you have misunderstood the great literary movement of the present
day, in its vast and varied effort.

_Brown._ Of that I know nothing, for I confess I have never read your

_Jones_ (_reproachfully_). Yes--and yet you accuse me of being a
trickster, a scoundrel, and a fool, without knowing my works?

_Brown._ It was my duty. But still I had no wish to be guilty of an

_Jones._ An outrage--how an outrage?

_Brown._ Had I known you had been present to hear me I would not have
caused you the pain of listening to me.

_Jones_ (_with admiration_). But it was the act of a brave man! Did
it not occur to you that had I been within reach of you that you too
would have suffered pain?

_Brown._ It did not, I was unconscious of your presence. I would
have preferred to have spoken behind your back. It is brutal to speak
before any face. It might lead to an unpleasantness.

_Jones._ No, it is your duty to do what you think is right. It is also
my duty to do what I think is right. We are now face to face. Have you
anything further to say to me?

_Brown_ (_hurriedly_). You have immense gifts--gifts which are those
of genius.

_Jones._ I thought you would understand me better when we met. My dear
friend, I am delighted at this reconciliation. Give me your hand.

_Brown_ (_clasping palms_). With all the pleasure in the world. But
still I owe you reparation. How can I--

_Jones_ (_interrupting_). Not another word, my dear friend. That is a
matter we can leave in the hands of our Solicitors.

    [_Scene closes in upon the suggestion._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A SOLILOQUY.


       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: "Oliver asking for More."]

It is curious to find a coincidence in style and in idea between an
earnest, witty and pious English author of the Sixteenth Century,
and an American author of our own day. Yet so it is, and here is the
parallel to be found between the quaint American tales about the old
negro, _Uncle Remus_, by JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS, in this year of Grace,
1892, and the fables writ by Sir THOMAS MORE in 1520, or thereabouts,
which he represents as if told him by an old wife and nurse, one
Mother MAUD. Here are "The Wolf,"--"Brer Wolf"--and the simple-minded
Jackass, both are going to confession to Father Fox--"Brer Fox." Æsop
is, of course, the common origin of all such tales. The extracts which
I have come across, are to be found in a small book compiled by the
Rev. THOMAS BRIDGETT, entitled, _The Wit and Wisdom of Sir Thomas
More_. The Baron wishes that with it had been issued a glossary of old
English words and expressions, as, to an ordinary modern reader, much
of Sir THOMAS MORE's writing is well-nigh unintelligible; nay, in some
instances, the Baron can only approximately arrive at the meaning,
as though it were a writ in a foreign language with which his
acquaintance was of no great profundity. Certes, the learned and
reverend compiler hath a keen relish for this quaintness, but not so
will fifteen out of his twenty readers, who, pardie! shall regret the
absence of a key without which some of the treasure must, to them at
least, remain inaccessible. With this reservation, but with no sort
of equivocation, doth the Baron heartily recommend The Reverend
BRIDGETT's compilation of Sir THOMAS MORE's "English as she is
writ" in the Sixteenth Century, to all lovers of good books in this
"so-called (O, immortal phrase!) Nineteenth Century." The Rev. THOMAS
hath well and ably done his work, and therefore doth the Baron advise
his readers to go to their booksellers, and, being there, to imitate
the example of DICKENS's oft-quoted _Oliver_, and "ask for MORE."

Quoth the Baron, "Much liketh me the Macmillanite series of _English
Men of Action_, and in a very special manner do I laud the latest
that, to my knowledge, hath appeared 'yclept _Montrose_, by Master
MOWBRAY MORRIS--a good many 'M's' in these names--who hath executed
his _Montrose_ with as loving a heart and as tender a touch as ever
did use old IZAAK towards the gentle that he, and the simple fish, did
love so well. Did not the very hangman burst into tears as he thrust
the unfortunate nobleman off the step? and did not a universal sob
of pity break from the vast crowd assembled to see the last of the
noble cavalier, victim to an unfortunate tradition of loyalty? What
wonder then if we sympathise with this luckless hero of romance?
The weak-knee'd villain of this historical drama was '_Charles_ (his
friend),' in which character, be it allowed, this sad dog of a Merry
Monarch not infrequently appeared. Thank you much, Mr. MOWBRAY


       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SYMPATHY.


_Ethel_ (_who has a grateful remembrance of the dish in question_).

       *       *       *       *       *




_Master George (stretching forth his fingers to feel if the shower is
abating) sings_:--      Rain! Rain!
        Go away!
      Come again
        Another day!

_Master Arthur_ (_gloomily_). Pooh! Rain won't go away, not in these
    By being sung at to old nursery rhymes:
    Especially in such a voice as yours!

_Master George._ Needn't be nasty, ARTHUR!

_Master Robert._                         How it pours!
    Thought we were going to have a real jolly day,
    And now it's set in wet, to spoil our holiday.

_Master George._ Always the way at Easter. Shall we trudge it?

_Master Arthur._ Not yet. What have you got, GEORGE, in your Budget?

_Master George._ Not very much, I fear!

_Master Arthur._                      Ah, that's vexatious!
    It might have cheered us up a bit.

_Master George_ (_indignantly_). Good gracious!
    You're always down on me, with no good reasons.
    You know _I_'m not the ruler of the Seasons.
    Now if I'd been in _your_ place--but no matter!

_Master Robert._ By Jingo, how the raindrops rush and clatter!
    Ah, Primrose-gathering is not half so jolly
    As once it used to be.

_Master Arthur._           Ah! my dear SOLLY,
    The springs are now so awfully wet and cold,
    The "cry" don't seem so fetching as of old.

    [_Pipes up._

_Recitative_. "_Who will buy my pretty, pretty Pri-im-ro-o-ses!_
    _All fresh gathered from the va-a-a-ll-ey?_"

_Master George._ The wet and cold have got into your throat,
    A quaver and a crack on every note!

_Master Robert._ Don't aggravate each other, boys; 'tis wrong,
    But while it rains _I_'ll tootle out a song:--
    (_Sings._) The days we went a-Primrosing!

        AIR--"_The days we went a-Gipsying!_"

    The days are gone, the happy days
      When _we_ were in our Spring;
    When all the Primrose loved to praise,
      And join its gathering.
    Oh! we could sing like anything,
      We felt the conqueror's glow,
    In the days when we went Primrosing,
              A long time ago.

        _Chorus._--In the days, &c.

    Then April's flowery return
      Was "Peace-with-Honour's" goal.
    And the bright brimstone-bunch would burn
      In every button-hole.
    Our Dames were gaily on the wing,
      With blossoms in full blow,
    In the days when we went Primrosing,
              A long time ago.

        _Chorus._--In the days, &c.

    But now Progressive storms prevail
      Election blizzards chill;
    The Primroses seem sparse and pale
      In valley and on hill.
    Yon cloud looks black as raven's wing!
      Things did not menace so.
    In the days when we went Primrosing
              A long time ago!

        _Chorus._--In the days, &c.

_Both._ Oh, brayvo, BOBBY!

_Master Robert._ Thanks. Yet my song's burden
    Is dismal as the croakings of _Dame Durden_.
    Our holiday is spoilt by driving showers.
    I fear we shall have no great show of flowers;
    But--anyhow my boys we're under cover;
    And let us hope that storm-cloud will pass over
    Without first giving us a dreadful drenching,
    And all our April-hopes entirely quenching.

_All_ (_singing together_).
      Rain! Rain!
        Go away!
      Come again
        Another day!

    [_Left crouching and singing._

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM THE THEATRES, &C. COMMISSION.--"I am afraid," said Mr. P.S.
RUTLAND, speaking of the Music Halls, and in answer to a question
of Mr. BOLTON's, "we cannot do a wreck. (_Laughter._)" Mr. WOODALL:
"Without being wrecked in the attempt. (_Renewed laughter._)" Oh,
witty WOODALL! Why, encouraged by this applause, he may yet be led on
to make a pun on his own name, and say, "_Would all_ were like him!"
or some such merry jest. The proceedings in this Committee were
becoming a trifle dull, but it is to be hoped that they may yet hear
something still more sparkling from the wise and witty WOODALL.

       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *



  Oh, hard of favour, fat of form,
    How fairer art thou than thy looks,
  Whose heart with kitchen fires is warm,
    Thou plainest of the plainer Cooks!

  Low down upon thy forehead grows
    Thick hair of no conducive dye;
  Short and aspiring is thy nose,
    Watched ever by a furtive eye.

  In shy defiance rarely seen
    Where kitchen stairways darkly tend,
  A foe to judge thee by thy mien,
    Proclaimed in every act a friend!

  I know thee little; not thy views
    On public or on private life,
  Whether a single lot thou'dst choose,
    Or fain would'st be a Guardsman's wife;

  For who can rightly read the change
    When, still'd the work-day traffic's din,
  In best apparel, rich and strange,
    Thou passest weekly to thy kin!

  A silken gown, that bravely stands
    Environing thy form, or no;
  Stout gloves upon thy straining hands,
    For brooch, the breastplate cameo.

  Shod with the well-heeled boots, whose knell
    Afar along the pavement sounds,
  Blent with the tinkling muffin-bell,
    Or milkman, shrilling on his rounds.

  _Nil tangis quod non ornas._ Nay,
    'Tis not alone the parsley sprig,
  The paper frill, the fennel spray,
    The Yule-tide's pertly-berried twig;

  But common objects by thy art
    Some proper beauty seem to own;
  Thy chop is as a chop apart,
    Fraught with a grace before unknown;

  The very egg thou poachest seems
    Some work of deft _orfévrerie_,--
  A yolk of gold that chastely gleams
    Through a thin shrine of ivory.

  From thee no pale and wilted ghost,
    Or branded by the blackening bar,
  But crisp and cheery comes the toast,
    And brown as ripening hazels are.

  Thy butter has not lost the voice
    Of English meads, where cowslips grow,
  And oh, the bacon of thy choice--
    Rose-jacinth labyrinthed in snow!

  And mutton, colder than the kiss
    Of formal love, where loathing lurks
  Its deadlier chill doth wholly miss,
    Fired with the spirit of thy works.

  To true occasion thou art true,
    As upon great occasions great;
  Doing whatever Cook may do
    When PHYLLIS, neat, alone will wait,

  As when the neighbouring villas send
    Their modish guests to statelier fare,
  And PHYLLIS, neat, is helped to tend
    By that staid man the Greengrocer.

  Though thou art more than plain in look,
    Thou wieldest charms that never tire--
  O Cook--we will not call thee Cook,
    Thou Priestess of the Genial Fire.

       *       *       *       *       *


    PROSPECTIVE ARRANGEMENTS.--Owing to the continued success of
    _Hamlet_, it has been decided (by arrangement with the Author)
    to postpone, &c.--_Extract from Advertisement in Daily Paper._

    SCENE--_Sanctum of Popular Actor-Manager of Theatre Royal
    Haymarket, Popular Actor-Manager dozing over a submitted
    Play. He closes his eyes and slumbers. When to him enter

_Master W.S._ (_shouting_). What ho, Sir Player! Wake up, Sir, wake

_P.A.-M._ (_rousing himself_). Delighted to see you, Mr. SHAKSPEARE. I
hope you have been in front and seen us?

_Master W.S._ Yes, I just had a glance. Find you have put in some new
business. When will all you fellows leave me alone?

_P.A.-M._ (_earnestly_). I hope, Sir, that in the cause of Art you do
not object, that--

_Master W.S._ (_interrupting_). Oh, no! It makes little difference to
me what you do. _My_ author's fees ceased years ago! But look here,
What do you mean by this? (_Produces Press-cutting of advertisement
and reads_)--"Theatre Royal, Haymarket, Prospective Arrangements.
Owing to the continued success of _Hamlet_, it has been decided (by
arrangement with the Author) to postpone" another play. Now, Master
TREE, or as I may call ye, "Master up a Tree," what have you to say
to that? You see your advertisement has caught my eye. I am here to
answer it!

_P.A.-M._ Most wonderful! I do not know how or wherefore my pen
slipped, but slip it did, indeed. However, I apologise. Is that

_Master W.S._ More than enough!

    _Enter the Ghost of HAMLET's Father suddenly._

_Ghost_ (_with a glance at W.S._). Ah, the Governor here already!
Still, I may have my chance as well as he! I gave the plot of
_Hamlet_! Why shouldn't I have another shot? (_To P.A.-M._)--
        But that I am forbid
        To tell the secrets of my prison-house,
        I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
        Would harrow up thy soul.

_P.A.-M._ (_eagerly_). The very thing for a melodrama. Delighted to
make your acquaintance--hem--in the Spirit!

_Master W.S._ Nay, good Master Player, this is scarcely business! If
anything in _that_ line is to be done, I should do it. (_To Ghost of
HAMLET's Father_). Begone, Sirrah!

_Ghost._ Nay, this is professional jealousy! (_To P.A.-M._). I find
thee apt--

    [_A book falls, and Master WM. SHAKSPEARE and Ghost of
    HAMLET's Father vanish together._

_P.A.-M._ (_opening his eyes_). Was I dreaming? (_With a recollection
of "The Red Lamp"_) I wonder! [_Left wondering._

       *       *       *       *       *



After the roughness of the Atlantic, in which to my taste there is far
too much water moving about, I stepped on to America with considerable
relief. I was quite satisfied, after that excellent dinner, the first
I had enjoyed since Liverpool slid away eastward, to walk aimlessly
through the streets till I fell into the arms of a broad-shouldered,
pug-nosed, Irish New York policeman. I remember no more till New York
passed away on a sunny afternoon, and then I fell asleep again and
slept till the brakeman, conductor, Pullman-car conductor, negro
porter and newsboy somehow managed to pull me out into the midnight
temperature of 80 below freezing. It was just like having one's head
put under the pump, but it did not quite revive me, for I mistook
my host in his sleigh for a walrus, and tried to harpoon him with my
umbrella. After matters had been explained, we went off, at least I
did, and never woke up till I fell out into a snow-drift, just as we
turned a corner at our journey's end.

[Illustration: "Ta-ra-ra-Boom!"]

In the morning, I had some idea that the sky was a great sapphire, and
that I was inside it, and that the fields were some sort of velvet
or wool-work, going round and round with the sun rioting over them,
whatever that may mean, till my head ached. I can't quite understand
all this now, but it seemed a very picturesque, impressionist
description when I wrote it. Then I went for a walk down Main Street.
I think it is about 400 miles long, for I got nowhere near the end,
but this was perhaps owing to my uncertainty as to which side was
the pleasanter to walk on. At last I gave it up, and sat down on the
side-walk. Now, the wisdom of Vermont, not being at all times equal
to grasping all the problems of everybody else's life with delicacy,
sometimes makes pathetic mistakes, and it did so in my ease. I
explained to the policeman that I had been sitting up half the night
on a wild horse in New Zealand, and had only just come over for the
day, but it was all in vain.

The cell at Vermont was horribly uncomfortable. I dreamt that I was
trying to boil snow in a thimble, to make maple syrup, and to swim on
my head in deep water, with a life-belt tied to my ankles. There was
another man there, and in the early morning he told me about Mastodons
and Plesiosauri in a wood near the town, and how he caught them by the
tails and photographed them; and also that Ringandknock, a mountain
near, was mentioned by EMERSON in a verse, which I remembered,
because he made "co-eval" rhyme with "extended." Only a truly great
Philosopher could have done that.

It was all new and delightful; and it must have been true, because my
informant was a quiet, slow-spoken man of the West, who refrained from
laughing at me. I have met very few people who could do that. Next day
all the idleness and trifling were at an end, and my friends conveyed
me back to New York.

       *       *       *       *       *


  This Dyer with a dire liver tried
  To earn a living dyeing, and he died.

       *       *       *       *       *



Of course I don't try to give dinners at home. The difficulties and
anxieties are too enormous. First there is inviting the people. I like
to have none but very clever men and very pretty women, but nobody's
acquaintance is limited to those rare beings, and, if I did invite
them, they would all have previous engagements: I do not blame them.
But suppose that two or three of the wits and beauties accept, that
is worse than ever, because the rest are a Q.C. (who talks about
his cases) and his wife, who talks about her children. An old
school-fellow, who has no conversation that does not begin, "I say, do
you remember old JACK WILLIAMS." This does not entertain the beauty,
who sits next him.

A Dowager Duchess, she knows none of the other people and wonders
audibly (to me) who they are. A clever young man, whose language is
the language of the future, and whose humour is of a date to which I
humbly hope my own days may not be prolonged. A Psychical Researcher,
with a note-book; he gets at the Duchess at once, and cross-examines
her about a visionary Piper who plays audible pibrochs through Castle
Blawearie, her ancestral home. Does she think the pibroch could be
taken down in a phonograph. Could the Piper be snapped in a kodak?
The Duchess does not know what a phonograph is; never heard of a
kodak. She does not like the note-book any more than _Mr. Pickwick's_
cabman liked it. She is afraid of getting into print. Then there is
the Warden of St. Jude's, a great scholar; he pricks up his ears,
not the keenest, at the word kodak, and begins to talk about a
newly-discovered _Codex_ of PODONIAN the Elder. Nobody knows what
a _Codex_ is. There is a School-board Lady, but, alas, she is next
the Warden of St. Jude's, not next the enthusiastic Clergyman, who
proses about a Club for Milliners. There is GRIGSBY, who develops an
undesirable interest in the Milliners' Club. Have they a Strangers'
Room? Do they give suppers? Are they Friendly Girls? Everyone thinks
GRIGSBY flippant and coarse; I wish I had not asked him to come. There
is a Positivist, who sneers at the Clergyman; there are a Squire and
his wife from Rutlandshire: she is next the Radical Candidate for the
Isle of Dogs. They do not seem to get on well together. GRIGSBY and
the humorist of the future are chaffing each other across the table:
nobody understands them; I don't know whether they are quarrelling
or not. Miss JONES, the authoress of _Melancholy Moods_ (in a
Greek dress, with a _pince-nez_: a woman should not combine these
attributes) is next the Squire: he has never heard of any of her
friends the Minor Poets: she takes no interest in Hay, nor in Tithes.
I see the Guardsman and the Beauty looking at each other across the
flowers and things: the language of their eyes is not difficult, nor
pleasant, to read. Why is the champagne so hot, and why are the ices
so salt and hard? I know something is the matter with the claret:
something is always the matter with the claret. It has been iced, and
the champagne has been standing for days in an equable temperature of

[Illustration: "It is midnight; I am tired to death. Yes, Bielby
_will_ have something to drink, and another cigar--a very large one."]

When they want to go away, it is a wet night, and those who have come
in cabs cannot get cabs to go back in. The Duchess's coachman lost his
way, coming here, she was half-an-hour late: she is anxious about his
finding his way home. GRIGSBY has got at the Psychical-Researcher, and
I hear him telling stories, as personal experiences, which I know are
not true. Psychical-Researchers have no sense of humour. "S.P.R.,"
why not "S.P.Q.R.?" I hear GRIGSBY asking, and suggesting "Society for
Propagating Rubbish." It is very rude of him, and not at all funny.

However, they do go away at last, that advantage a dinner at home
has over a dinner at the Club, there they often seem as if they would
never go away at all.

On the other hand, the wine is all right at the Club, I believe, for
I know nothing about wine myself. Some men talk of nothing else, and
seem to know the vintages without looking at the names on the bottles.

The worst of giving a dinner at the Club is, that I never know how
many men I have asked, nor even who they are. It is enough if I
remember the date. It might be a good thing to write these matters
down in a Diary, or on a big sheet of paper, pinned up in one's room.
I know I have written to ask some Americans whom I have not seen:
they brought letters of introduction. I forget their names--there is a
Professor who has written a novel, there is a General, I think, and a
Mad Doctor.

My best plan will be to stand about in the drawing-room, and try to
select them as they come in. Here is WILKINSON, who was at St. Jude's
with me: I shake hands with him warmly. He looks blank. It is not
WILKINSON, after all; it is a stranger, he is dining with somebody
else. Some other men have come in while I am apologising. One of them
comes up and says, "Mr. McDUFFER!" He must be an American. Which? He
tells me: he is the Mad Doctor. He introduces his countrymen; they
all say "Mr. McDUFFER!" How am I to remember which is the General and
which is the Professor? Other people drop in. Here is CRIMPTON. He
is a Reviewer. Clever fellow, CRIMPTON. Here is old BEILBY--he is hot
from the University Match. He begins to tell me all about it. JONES
was awfully well set, but that muff SMITH ran him out. BEILBY does
not believe it _was_ out. Odd the spite umpires always have at our
side. Feel that I must tear myself from BEILBY, the only man whose
conversation really interests me. Here is an English writer on
military subjects. I introduce him to the American General. Find he
is the Professor, after all. We get down-stairs somehow. BEILBY is
opposite me. CRIMPTON is next the Professor. The Military Writer is
next the General. Things do not appear to go very smoothly. It seems
that the Military one has said something about General BEAUREGARD
which he should not have said. The General is getting red. I hate it,
when men begin to talk about the American War. Any other war they
are welcome to: the Danish War, the war of 1866, the war of 1870, the
glorious affair of Majuba. But Americans are touchy about their war,
not easy to please them whatever you say. Much best to say nothing.
CRIMPTON is laughing at American novels. He does not know that the
Professor is an American novelist. What am I to do? I try to kick him
under the table. I kick the Mad Doctor, and apologise. Was feeling
about for a footstool. BEILBY is trying to talk about Base Ball to
the General, who is still red. Nothing is more disagreeable than these
international discussions at dinner.

Now, a clever host would know how to get out of this; he would start
some other subject. I can think of no other subject. Happy thought:
gradually glide into American cookery, clams, canvas-backed ducks,
what is that dish with a queer name--Jumbo? I don't feel as if it
were Jumbo. Squambo? Terapin soup? It sounds rather like the Hebrew
for a talisman, or an angel of some sort. However, they are talking
about cookery now, and wines. Is there not an American wine called
Catawampus? The Mad Doctor has his eye on me; he seems interested.
I thought I heard him murmur Aspasia, or Aphasia, or something
like that. It is not Catawampus--it is Catawba. I feel that I
_patauge_--flounder, I mean. I am getting quite nervous; feel like a
man in a powder-magazine, with lighted cigarettes everywhere. If one
can withdraw them to the smoking-room, they will settle down somehow.
They do. The Military Critic gets into a corner with BEILBY. The
Americans and I consort together. Most agreeable fellows; have been
everywhere, and seen everything. CRIMPTON, luckily, is reading one of
his own reviews in the evening paper. I glance at it; it is a review
of the Professor's novel. Not a kind review--rather insulting than
otherwise. He hates BEILBY, and he does not know the Military Critic.
If he joins us, there will be more international discussion. I get
them on to the balcony, and pretend to go to ring the bell for coffee.
I whisper to CRIMPTON. He is quite taken aback. "Awfully sorry; never
dreamed the Professor was not English." He wants to tell the Professor
that, thinks he will be pleased. He apologises to me; it is dreadfully
disagreeable to be apologised to by a guest. "All my fault," I say;
and, really, so it is. CRIMPTON remembers an evening engagement, and
goes off _à l'Anglaise_.


The Americans go off; say they have enjoyed themselves. I feel
inclined to apologise for CRIMPTON. On second thoughts, I don't. They
do not look like men who write about their adventures in their native
newspapers. Ladies do that. A weight is off my mind. The Military
Writer goes home. He asks, "Who was that old man who fancied himself
so about SHERMAN's March?" "That was General HOME, who held a command
under SHERMAN." The Military Writer whistles; wishes I had told him
that before dinner. I wish I had, but I got so flurried and confused.
It is midnight; I am tired to death. Yes, BEILBY _will_ have something
to drink, and another cigar--a very large one. He begins to talk about
the University Match, about all University Matches, about old scores,
and old catches, from MITCHELL's year to the present day.

It is three o'clock before I get home; the Americans _may_ have
enjoyed themselves, I have not. I dream about the Mad Doctor; perhaps
he will put me into his next book on _Incipient Insanity_. Serve me

       *       *       *       *       *




My very dear young girls, those Arts and accomplishments which form
part of the average education will be taught you by your Governess,
and in some cases, if your parents think it judicious, by a male
Professor. I do not propose in these papers to deal with such
subjects. But there are certain points in the life of the young girl,
about which the handbooks have but little to say, which your teachers
do not include in their course of tuition. Some of these points are
particularly intimate and sentimental. It is here that I would wish
to act as your adviser, and, if I may, as your confidential friend.
I shall always be glad, while these papers are being published,
to receive and answer any letters from young girls on questions of
sentiment and propriety. If we had no sentiment, life would not stand
thinking about; if we had no propriety, life would not stand talking
about. Of the two, propriety is, perhaps, for the woman the more
important, but I shall be glad to answer questions on both. And now
let me say a few words on the subject of the Young Girl's Diary.

[Illustration: (Young girl.)]

You must most certainly keep a Diary.

When I was a young girl of twenty-eight--it is not so very long ago--I
had my Diary bound in pale blue watered silk; it had three locks and a
little silver key which I wore on a riband round my neck. I never took
it off except to--I mean for the purposes of the toilette. There was a
pocket at the end of the book, which would hold a faded flower or any
little souvenir. I always wrote it in solitude and by night. Secresy
has its ritual, and it is infinitely sweet and consoling. If you
should ever choose to read any passage from your Diary to the dearest
of your girl-friends, the confidence becomes in consequence so much
more confidential; for she will know that you are reading to her what
was never intended for any human eye to see, and will enjoy it more.
If you have the least appreciation of what sentiment really means, if
you feel that you are misunderstood, or if you suffer from the most
sacred of all emotions, you will most certainly keep a Diary.

The entries in the Diary need not be of any great length. I once had
a dear girl-friend who, during the happy season of her first love,
became in the pages of her Diary almost entirely interjectional. I
think this was from natural delicacy. I was recently stopping at her
house, and owing to circumstances over which she had no control, I
am able to reproduce here the entries which she made in the few days
which culminated in her engagement.

"_September_ 6.--Why?"

You observe that she is puzzled to account for her own emotions, and
yet hesitates to give the inevitable solution. The intense reticence
of this entry seems to me peculiarly beautiful.

"_September_ 7.--I hate MARY BINDLER."

I can remember the circumstances very well, and I am inclined to think
that she had some reason to be jealous of MARY BINDLER. MARY was not
at all a nice girl.

"_September_ 8.--Joy, joy, joy!"

I think I can explain this entry. MARY BINDLER had been called away
hurriedly. Somebody was dead, or something of that sort. My friend's
expression of relief seems to me very pretty and natural.

"_September_ 9.--Ah!"

"_September_ 10.--Oh!"

In that little word "Ah!" there is the whole history of a pic-nic and
a carriage accident. It was there that she first guessed his feelings
towards her. I am sorry to say that I have not been able to obtain
any adequate explanation of the "Oh!" But I know they went out after
dinner to see if it was possible to play tennis by moonlight. I
conclude that it was not, for the next entry, which consists simply of
a note of exclamation, is really a record of her engagement.

Of course I need not point out the impropriety of mixing in the pages
of your Diary the record of the most sacred emotions, and notes of
things more commonplace. I knew a girl who invariably did this. She
always commenced with an account of any money that she might have
spent during the day. I have managed, with considerable difficulty, to
make a copy of one of these entries, and I give it as a warning:--

"Chocolate, one-and-six. ALGERNON has written to me, asking me to see
him again for the last time. I have written back that my decision
is unalterable. It breaks my heart to have to be so cruel--but fate
wills it, and it's no good fighting against Mamma. Sent my grey to be
cleaned--but it won't look anything when it's done."

In another entry I found the following:--

"A dear long letter from EGBERT. How perfect his sympathy is! Not
feeling very well to-day--will always refuse _vol-au-vent_ in future."

I need hardly say that a girl who would chronicle the state of her
digestion and the sympathy of her lover in one paragraph could not
possibly have any soul.

The perfect Diary is something of a paradox. It should be composed
chiefly of what is unpublishable--of one's secrets and sentiments--but
it should always be written as if with a view to publication. In your
Diary you can say things about yourself which it would be conceited to
say openly, and you can say things about your friends which it would
be unkind to say openly; you can make your own pose seem more real
to yourself. So, my dear young girls, take my advice, and commence
Diaries. And remember I shall be very glad to answer any questions on
the subject.

       *       *       *       *       *



  It is out at last, but it falls very flat;
  Such a very big "bag," such a very small "cat"!
  Popularity Budget? It can't be called _that_!
  The Budget that was to have been such "good biz,"
  And have caused the Election to go with a "whizz,"
  Fizzles out in--reducing the duty on Fizz!
  Ah, JOKIM, my joker, you've hardly the knack
  Of holding the Bag, so we'll give you "_the Sack_!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"MEET IT IS I SET IT DOWN."--"Mr. J. McN. WHISTLER," it was remarked
by one of his visitors on the closing day of his recent Exhibition,
"has in his Catalogue put down all unfavourable criticisms." How, in
this respect, would all of us like to imitate the Eccentric Knight of
the Order of the Butterfly, and put down all adverse criticism.

       *       *       *       *       *

NOTICE.--Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS.,
Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no
case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed
Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.

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