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Title: Stage, Study & Studio - The Fun Library
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 "Stage, Study & Studio - The Fun Library" ***

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  Transcriber’s Notes

  Texts printed in italics in the source document have been transcibed
  _between underscores_. Blackletter and underlined texts have been
  transcribed between =equal signs= and ~tildes~ respectively.
  Superscript texts are represented as ^{text}. Small capitals have been
  converted to CAPITALS.


[Illustration: THE ARTIST.--It’s no good making that noise, my good
fellow. As I told you just now, being a landscape-painter, I don’t want
models.

(_From a drawing by Philip Baynes._)]



  The Fun Library


  [Illustration]

  _Edited by_
  _J.A. Hammerton_
  _Editor of the
  Punch Library
  of Humour_

  STAGE, STUDY & STUDIO

  As pictured by FRED BARNARD, W. S. BRUNTON, GEORGE DU MAURIER, ERNEST
  GRISET, CHARLES KEENE, JOHN LEECH, PHIL MAY, GORDON THOMSON, H. M.
  BATEMAN, J. L. C. BOOTH, W. K. HASELDEN, PHILIP BAYNES, THOMAS
  MAYBANK, CHARLES PEARS, and many other humorists of the pencil.

  LONDON: EDUCATIONAL BOOK CO L^{td}

[Illustration: VOL VIII]



PREFACE


The life of what still passes in London for “Bohemia”--in and about the
theatres, the studios and the literary clubs--figures conspicuously in
the pictorial humour of our time. It is but natural that the artist in
search of inspiration should occasionally turn his attention to his own
immediate surroundings, and find subjects for his art in the comic
representation of his fellows of the brush and pencil, his friends the
authors and the actors, and not infrequently, himself! Some of the most
pointed jokes of Keene, Du Maurier and Phil May introduced “the artist,”
and in the case of the last mentioned he usually depicted his own form
and features, as Cruikshank was fond of doing more than half a century
before him.

This tradition has been well maintained among the artists of a later
day. We shall find that a very considerable proportion of the humorous
art of the moment concerns itself with the sayings and doings of our
Bohemians--a term, by the way, that indicates a very mild and
inoffensive variety of an almost extinct type of character.

The Bohemian of the twentieth century is a much more wholesome person
than his prototype of the middle of the nineteenth. He may be still as
irresponsible, as unconventional in his manners, but he is at least
clean and less apt to degenerate into the “sponger.” He of the older
generation provided picturesque material for the humorist of the
pencil; but the stage, the study, and the studio still furnish much
matter for mirth, as the admirable work of Mr. W. K. Haselden, Mr. Bert
Thomas, Mr. H. M. Bateman, Mr. J. L. C. Booth, Mr. Charles Pears, and
other living artists of note, represented in the present collection,
bear ample witness.

It is obvious from the Index that this volume contains a most
representative survey of its subject, and is probably second-to-none in
THE FUN LIBRARY for the high spirits and good humour which it reflects.
The collection ranges from the day of Cruikshank onward, and presents
many examples of such talented artists of the past as Fred Barnard, Du
Maurier, Keene, Leech, Phil May, Doyle, and many others, as well as
examples of Mr. Gordon Thomson, the veteran survivor of the merry men
who made _Fun_ and _Judy_ serious rivals of _Punch_ fifty years ago.

The sources from which the illustrations have been drawn are much the
same as those that have provided the other volumes of THE FUN LIBRARY.
In the present volume there is a particularly fine selection from the
work of Mr. Haselden, reprinted here by special permission of the editor
of _The Daily Mirror_, and it also contains an important series by the
late Phil May, reprinted by arrangement with _The Sketch_, while we are
indebted to Mr. Gilbert Dalziel for permission to use a considerable
number of excellent items from _Fun_ and _Judy_, with which journals he
was so long and honourably associated. To Mr. Punch’s collections of the
“’sixties” we owe the numerous examples of Leech, Keene and Du Maurier
at their best.

In brief, it may be claimed for “Stage, Study and Studio” that the
collection is fully up to the high standard we have sought to maintain
in all the volumes of THE FUN LIBRARY.

  J. A. H.

[Illustration]



[Illustration: INDEX]

TO THE ILLUSTRATIONS


  PANTOMIMICS
                                                    PAGE

  Rehearsing the “fish” ballet                         1
  Billy and Bunny                                      3
  Winning the gloves                                   4
  Modern languages taught in one lesson                5
  Theatre Royal--Nursery                               6
  An ex(bus)horse-tive argument                        7
  A pict-ure                                           8
  A swallow out of season                              9
  “With a neck like that”                             11
  Experienced young fellow                            12
  Two transformation scenes                           13
  Not the correct way of pudding it                   15
  Humanizing influence of pantomime                   16


  ON THE STAGE AND OFF

  Prompt but not prepared                             17
  A wordless story                                    18
  English as she is spoke                             23
  Cassius                                             24
  Acting under difficulties                           25
  Ever-popular criminal on the stage                  27
  On the stage--and off                             28-9
  When actors are Members of Parliament               31
  When actors become modest                           32
  “Still running”                                     33
  The part of Hamlet                                  34
  Good and bad business at the theatre                35
  “A little padding”                                  37
  The actor’s one topic--himself                      39
  A side-box talk                                     40
  The bald baron                                    41-4


  FUN AT THE PLAY

  “Are you sitting on my hat?”                        45
  Delights of theatre-going                         46-7
  “Not so long as four solos”                         49
  A little ruse                                       50
  A morning concert                                   52
  Pit, boxes, and gallery                             54
  Playgoers and their eccentricities                  56
  Credit where credit is due                          57
  A “civil” retort                                    58


  AMONG THE AMATEURS

  At a fancy ball                                     61
  Private theatricals                                 63
  Private theatricals at the Titwillows’              65


  THE POETS’ CORNER

  Portrait of a gentleman                             67
  The poets illustrated                               69
  No! Don’t                                           70
  The poets illustrated                               74
  “Mariar Martin, or the Red Baarn”                   75
  An illustrated edition of the poets               77-9
  Poets and their patrons                             80


  MAINLY ABOUT AUTHORS

  Would-be novelist                                   85
  Lady Audley’s secret                                86
  Perfect sincerity, or, thinkings aloud              88
  The ancient Britons                                 88
  A rural study                                       89
  “The great cypher work”                             90
  Author’s miseries                                 92-7
  Harris-ing reflections                              99
  “Hemily Fitz-Hosborn”                              100


  THE EDITOR IN HIS DEN

  The editor at home                                 101
  Romance of advertising                             103
  “Pirates surprised at sunset”                      104
  Fancy portrait--Oliver Twist                       105
  A fact!                                            106
  A new reading                                      111


  STUDIES FROM THE STUDY

  “He’s sent the books”                              113
  Returned--with thanks                              114
  A queer cut                                        115
  The pursuit of letters                             116
  Grand march of Intellect                           116
  Catalogue of the letter P.                         117
  The age of intellect                               118
  Subject for a picture                              119
  An awful apparition                                121
  The musical neighbour                              123
  British Museum catalogue                           124
  Analytical papers                                  125
  “Couldn’t read Miss Frump’s new book”              127
  The philosopher’s revenge                      129-136


  FUN IN THE STUDIO

  “Present company always excepted!”                 137
  “Very tiring”                                      138
  Wholesale                                          139
  “Qualifications”                                   140
  Behind the scenes                                  141
  “Asking for it”                                    142
  The commercial side                                143
  Gaddy’s academy picture on view                    144
  “Flattering”                                       145
  Profession and practice                            146
  A rapid genius                                     147
  “English langweege”                                148
  “Only their mothers”                               149
  For exhibition?                                    150
  Pretty innocent                                    151
  “Aye, there’s the rub!”                            152
  “Work hard and get your own living”                153
  March of science                                   154
  The real                                           154
  Pleasures of the studio                            155
  A happy medium                                     155
  The ideal                                          156
  Two principal figures                              157
  Answers for our artist                             158
  The mother of invention                            159
  Kindly meant                                       160
  “Where’s your beard?”                              160
  How some old painters must have worked             161
  Studio persuasion                                  162
  “A portrait painter”                               163
  Model husband and a lay figure                     164
  Marvellous!                                        165
  A visit to the studio                              166
  Scene in a studio                                  167
  Ballet of action                                   168
  Turps _v._ Turpitude                               169
  One use for “Dundrearys”                           169
  Accommodating!                                     170
  “Lucky fellow!!”                                   171
  “Noblesse oblige!”                                 172
  Our art-school conversazione                       173
  “Only one spur a-piece”                            174
  “Sharp’s the word”                                 175
  The sympathies of art                              176
  Under a great master                               176
  “Sent it to the wash!”                             177
  “Ugly and as ridiculous as possible”               178
  Perfect sincerity; or, thinkings aloud             179
  Easily satisfied                                   180
  Compliments of the season                          181
  “Skyed”                                            182


  ROUND THE GALLERIES

  Caution                                            183
  Painters and gazers                                185
  An artist’s dream                                  186
  “Athletic exercises”                               187
  Let them exhibit their pictures outside            188
  Pleasures of the Royal Academy                     189
  Art in the National Gallery                        190
  Outside the Royal Academy                          191
  Charming fashion of long skirts                    192
  “Unto this last”                                   193
  “Very like--very like”                             194
  The umbrella question                              195
  Pictures of the English, painted by the French     196
  A-musing                                           197
  Perhaps                                            198
  Reception of pictures at Royal Academy             199
  Our historical portrait gallery                  200-1
  A study                                            202
  Overheard at the Academy                           203
  Suggestions for the Royal Academy catalogue        206


  THE ARTIST OUT OF DOORS

  “It’s an ill wind,” etc.                           207
  The old cottage                                    208
  The elysium of artists                             209
  “A pretty prospect”                                210
  Possibilities of a penny pistol and a box of caps  211
  Technical and practical                            212
  “Impertinent curiosity of the vulgar”              213
  “That pre-Raphaelite fellow”                       214
  Where ignorance is bliss                           215
  Design for an album                                216
  Studying skies                                     217
  Culture for the million                            218
  An artist scamp in the Highlands                   220
  Ingenious protection against midges                221
  Sketching from Nature                              222
  “Very nearly a pound”                              223
  Art at a cattle show                               224
  What an artist has to put up with                  224
  Enjoying himself in the Highlands                  225
  “Compliments of the (sketching) season”            226
  “Fine Art”                                         227
  “Brother Brush”                                    228
  Making the best of it                              229
  One reason, certainly!                             230
  Æsthetics                                          230
  A broad hint                                       231
  Pleasant for Jack Daubs                            231
  Flattering!                                        232
  Our adventurous artist                             233
  Art and science                                    234
  An eye for colour                                  235
  Ignorance _was_ bliss                              235
  Our artist                                         236


  SCULPTURE AND COMEDY

  “Well broke!”                                      237
  Venus of Milo                                      238
  “Ingenuas didicisse”                               241
  At the great exhibition of 1861                    243
  Popular history                                    244
  Capital punishment                                 245
  A flagrant attempt                                 246


  FUNNY FILMS: HUMOURS OF PHOTOGRAPHY

  “Many a true word spoke in jest”                   247
  Bobby’s camera                                     249
  Interesting group posed for a photograph       250-251
  Happy thought                                  252-253
  Pleasant for Simpkins                              254
  Unanswerable                                       255
  Can the camera lie?                                256
  The artistic(!) studio                             257
  “What for?”                                        259
  Portrait of a distinguished photographer           260
  A photographic picture                             261
  Encouragement of art                               263
  “A florid complexion”                              265
  Artful!                                            266
  Subject for a picture                              267
  Photographic beauties                              268


  WANDERING MINSTRELS

  Christmas waits                                    269
  Division of labour                                 271
  Culture for the million                            273
  Nothing like advertising yourself                  275
  Sketch from a study window                         277


  THROUGH THE OPERA GLASSES

  The opera                                          281
  What indeed?                                       284
  “French without a master”                          285
  We don’t sing enough                               287
  The high note                                      288
  The low note                                       289
  “Only twenty-two”                                  291
  Culture for the million                            292
  Gentle rebuke                                      293

[Illustration]


CHIEF ARTISTS REPRESENTED

  ADAMS, JACK. 29.
  BARNARD, FRED. 9, 69, 74, 76-9, 99, 115, 147, 160, 169, 176, 206, 220,
  244.
  BATEMAN, H. M. 3, 208, 288-9, 291.
  BEDE, CUTHBERT. 58.
  BOOTH, J. L. C. 50, 90, 138, 190.
  BRENTNALL, E. F. 212.
  BROMLEY, V. W. 146.
  BROWNE, W. G. A. 234.
  BRUNTON, W. S. 154, 185, 235, 296.
  BULL, RENÉ. 18.
  COOPER, T. G. 155.
  CRUIKSHANK, GEORGE. 24, 54, 116, 118, 178, 216, 279, 280.
  DAUBENY, HESKETH. 104.
  DOYLE, RICHARD. 84, 124, 200-1, 209, 269.
  DU MAURIER, GEORGE. 65, 67, 89, 129-136, 141, 157-9, 192, 218, 229,
  238, 252, 253, 263, 271, 273, 292, 293.
  GRISET, ERNEST. 161.
  HASELDEN, W. K. 25, 27, 31, 32, 35, 39, 46, 47, 56, 57, 189, 287.
  HOWARD, CAPT. H. R. 222.
  KEENE, CHARLES. 91, 101, 139, 143-5, 168, 172, 173, 175, 182, 193,
  195, 198, 207, 213, 217, 223, 226-8, 230, 232, 233, 241, 245, 254,
  255, 265, 285.
  LAWSON, F. W. 75.
  LEECH, JOHN. 4, 8, 63, 70, 86, 88, 100, 114, 119, 121, 123, 155, 166,
  167, 179, 180, 196, 243, 246, 251, 256-7, 267, 268, 277, 281, 284.
  LEETE, ALFRED. 45.
  MAY, PHIL. 1, 11, 23, 37, 61, 137, 148, 149, 237, 247, 259.
  MAYBANK, THOMAS. 81-3.
  PEARS, CHARLES. 211, 249.
  PROCTOR, J. 162.
  SANDERCOCK, H. 106, 125, 150.
  THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE. 286.
  THOMAS, BERT. 34, 49, 191.
  THOMSON, GORDON. 6, 14, 15, 16, 152, 197, 203.
  WALL, A. H. 194.
  WEIGAND, W. J. 17.
  WRIGHT, FRANK. 215.

[Illustration]


PRINCIPAL LITERARY CONTENTS

                                         PAGE
  PLAYERS’ PRANKS                           2
  EMMA AND ULPHO                           19
  HUMOURS OF THE PLAYHOUSE                 22
  SCENERY AND COSTUME OF THE STAGE         48
  ASS YOU LIKE IT                          55
  HAMLET’S LAST SOLILOQUY                  58
  AT THE MASQUERADE                        60
  AMATEUR FLUTE-PLAYER                     62
  ONLY SEVEN                               64
  LYCEUM LYRICS                            66
  THE POETS AT PLAY                        68
  MOTLEY’S KINGDOM                         76
  MY MANUSCRIPTS                           81
  A MAN I HATE                             84
  MARK TWAIN AND THE KEY                   87
  HUMOURS OF THE PRINTING HOUSE            91
  HARRIS-ING REFLECTIONS                   98
  HUMOURS OF ADVERTISING                  102
  APPROVED BY THE EDITOR                  109
  RULES FOR NEWSPAPER CORRESPONDENTS      110
  LITERARY FLUNKEYISM                     112
  HUMOURS OF OUR LANGUAGE                 114
  MORE HUMOURS OF ADVERTISING             120
  HE NEVER CALLED AGAIN                   126
  A DANGEROUS WRITER                      128
  PAINTERS AND GAZERS                     184
  A DREAM OF UNFAIR WOMEN                 204
  IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS                 209
  PYRAMUS AND THISBE                      239
  PHOTOGRAPHIC FAILURES                   248
  THE PHOTOGRAPHS                         258
  MRS BROWN AND THE GERMAN BAND           270
  STREET MUSICIANS                        280
  THE BOHEMIAN GIRL                       282
  RECOLLECTIONS OF THE OPERA              286
  A WOMAN’S THOUGHTS ABOUT WOMEN          290
  THE ONION GIRL                          294



[Illustration: PANTOMIMICS

REHEARSING THE “FISH” BALLET (A FACT).

STAGE MANAGER. What are you, boy?

BOY. Please, sir, I’m a whelk.]


[Illustration]

PLAYERS’ PRANKS

  Practical joking might correctly be described as a remnant of the
  barbaric ages, when strength and muscle received the respect we now
  award to mind and brain. Indeed, it still passes current among modern
  barbarians for humour, while in civilized States, where humour is
  something that appeals to the intellect, joking in the practical sort
  is generally regarded as buffoonery. Having admitted thus much, it may
  be said that even practical joking is not all bad, and is sometimes “a
  source of innocent merriment.”

  Joking of the practical kind is very often a pronounced characteristic
  of the actor, as the countless stories of players and their pranks
  abundantly prove. The reason for this is most likely to be found in
  the fact that it requires something of the actor’s talent successfully
  to carry out a practical joke, and actors, knowing they possess the
  ability, are often tempted to exercise it. The name of the genial J.
  L. Toole, of happy memory, will naturally occur to every one in this
  connexion, and the fact of that good-hearted soul having had a strong
  weakness for this diversion is ample proof that practical joking is
  quite compatible with geniality of character. The stories that are
  told of Toole and those which he told of himself would easily fill a
  couple of volumes. For the purpose of the present chapter a typical
  one will suffice.

[Illustration: BILLY AND BUNNY.

IRATE PARENT (_in front row_) OF SMALL BOY ASSISTING CONJUROR.
Disobedient young monkey! Why, it was only last week I forbade him to
keep rabbits.]

[Illustration: A FANCY SCENE--WINNING THE GLOVES.

From the grand pugilistic ballet of the fight for the championship,
which might, could, should, and ought to be played at one of the
operas.]

[Illustration: THE MODERN LANGUAGES TAUGHT IN ONE LESSON!

GERMAN PROFESSOR (_on “la Perche”_) _to Italian ditto below_. Be
steadier, Bill, will yer, or I’m blowed if I don’t come down!]

  The comedian once entered a dairy, and solemnly remarked to the
  shopman--“I will take a boy,” with a glance at his shelves. “A boy,
  sir?” asked the puzzled shopman. “Yes, or a girl,” replied the
  comedian. The man never doubted but his visitor was a lunatic, and
  said, mildly--“Pardon me, this is a milkshop.” “Come outside,” said
  Toole, and taking the dairyman by the arm he led him out of the shop
  and pointed to the sign. “I’ll take a boy or a girl,” he solemnly
  repeated. “Read what your notice states--‘Families supplied in any
  quantity.’”

  E. A. Sothern, the famous “Lord Dundreary,” had an insatiable
  propensity for practical joking, and many are the stories of his
  pranks. One of the most amusing, though, perhaps, a little cruel,
  tells of his treatment of his guests on the occasion of a dinner party
  to a number of congenial souls. They were all assembled but one, who
  was rather late. After waiting a few minutes, the host suddenly
  exclaimed--“Here he comes--let’s all get under the table--make haste.”
  Anticipating a joke, they all scrambled under, except Sothern himself.
  Enter guest--“Hallo! where are all the other fellows?” “Oh, they all
  got under the table when they heard you coming. I’m sure, I don’t
  know why.” The ignominous crawling forth one by one that ensued can
  safely be left to the imagination of the reader.

[Illustration: THEATRE ROYAL--NURSERY.

Master Reginald’s tender years having prevented his attendance at the
Pantomime, Messrs. Tom, Charlie and Co. kindly give him a _résumé_ of
the evening’s performance.]

  It is always a good thing when we find the subject of a practical joke
  joining good-naturedly in the mirth, and this we have in a story told
  by the late Mr. G. A. Sala of a joke played upon him by Lord
  Dundreary. “I remember going down to the Derby,” writes the famous
  journalist, “in a highly festive fashion, with poor Edward Sothern,
  the never-to-be forgotten Lord Dundreary. On this particular day
  Sothern, the kindest, but still the most provoking of practical
  jokers, was as full of mischievous pranks as an egg is full of meat.
  He offered to bet me a guinea before we reached Clapham that I would
  lose my temper, and lose it badly, before 2 p.m. ‘But why, my dear
  Sothern,’ I asked, ‘should I lose it? The weather is beautiful, I did
  my work by getting up at six this morning, I am in the best of all
  good company, and I haven’t got a penny on the race.’ ‘Never mind,’
  persisted Lord Dundreary, ‘I will bet you one guinea that you will
  blaze up like a vesuvian thrown into the fire before 2 p.m.’

[Illustration: AN EX(BUS)HORSE-TIVE ARGUMENT.

MAZEPPA. Now, just you bang that ’bus door smarter to-night, or the old
hoss’ll never get a good start.

CARPENTER. All right, miss. Cue’s “wild career.”

  [_N.B.--The noble steed is an old “Favourite.”_]

[Illustration: A PICT-URE.

Show-ing what Mas-ter Tom did af-ter see-ing a pan-to-mime--but you
would not do so--oh dear no!--be-cause you are a good boy.]

[Illustration: A SWALLOW OUT OF SEASON.

_Scene_--Boxing-night.

GENTLEMAN IN FRONT (_bawling_). ’Ar-_reee!!!_

’ARRY, AT BACK. ’Ullo!!

G. IN F. (_as before_). Where’s Bill-_leee!!_

’ARRY. Why, the young beggar’s been an’ swallered his sixpence in the
crowd, and they won’t let ’im in!]

  “It was half-past one when we reached the course, and one of the
  officious red-jackets who haunt the Hill stepped forward and gave me
  the customary brush down. I strolled a few paces onward, when another
  red-jacket pounced down on me, and, notwithstanding my expostulations,
  brushed me down again, hissing meanwhile as though he were grooming a
  horse. I essayed to light a cigar, when a third brush-fiend was upon
  me; but when a fourth made his appearance, brandishing his implement
  of torture, the dams of my long pent-up temper broke down, and a
  torrent of adjectives, the reverse of complimentary, flowed over the
  fourth brush-demon. My wrath was at its height when I found myself
  quickly tapped on the shoulder, and beheld the maliciously chuckling
  countenance of Sothern. ‘I will trouble you for one guinea,’ he said,
  and proceeded to explode with laughter. Of course he had followed me
  about, and feed the brush-fiends to harry me to desperation.”

  W. J. Florence, a well-known American comedian in his day, was very
  much on a par with Sothern in the matter of practical joking, and the
  story of a good-natured trick he played on the latter, as related by
  himself in one of his posthumous papers, is very entertaining.
  “Meeting Sothern on Broadway one fine morning,” so the story goes, “I
  told him that there was an oat for him at the Fifth Avenue Hotel,
  taking care to pronounce my words in such a careless, inarticulate way
  that the genial comedian thought I said there was a note for him at
  the hostelry I had named. He accordingly started off post-haste up
  town--we had met near the battery, whither we both had strolled for a
  morning constitutional--to get his oat. When he reached the Fifth
  Avenue Hotel and the clerk, in response to his inquiry, handed him out
  the grain of oats which I had left for him, he saw the joke
  immediately, and laughed at it most heartily, devoting the remainder
  of the day to telling everybody he met what a capital joke Florence
  had played on him.”

[Illustration: “With a neck like that, what a fine thing it must be to
be thirsty!”]

[Illustration: EXPERIENCED YOUNG FELLOW. Ah, Clara, you should have seen
the _Pantomimes_ that I’ve seen; these modern affairs ain’t half so
good.]

  The late Fred Leslie was another popular comic actor who, like Sothern
  and Toole and so many of “the profession” past and present, was never
  so happy as when planning some harmless practical joke, which was
  always sure to amuse every one concerned. One of his most successful
  efforts in this direction was made during his tour in America with the
  Gaiety Company, and is related by the late Clement Scott in his
  recollections of this celebrated comedian.

[Illustration: TWO TRANSFORMATION SCENES.

_Scene No. 1._--“The Rosy Realms of Boundless Bliss.”

_Scene No. 2._--_En route_ from Rosy Realms to Rag-and-Bottle Alley, St.
Giles’s.]

  One night (says Mr. Scott) several of his _confrères_ had been invited
  to a supper, and the number included the musical director of the
  theatre they were then playing at. His absence from the orchestra
  nearly the entire evening in question was generally commented on, and
  it subsequently leaked out that he had been busily employed composing
  the music of a song which he intended to submit to them for approval
  before the party broke up. The night being a fine one, it was agreed
  to walk from the theatre to the house of their host. The composer,
  when he sallied from the stage door, was seen to have a huge roll of
  music, carefully tied up, peeping from one of his overcoat pockets.
  This was just as carefully abstracted, and some one was deputed to
  stroll leisurely onward and engage the victim in apparently earnest
  conversation, while the rest remained behind and committed the music
  to memory, after which the manuscript was skilfully returned without
  arousing the slightest suspicion.

  At the termination of the meal, and before the musician could reach
  the piano, Leslie began to whistle a few bars of the melody, which, it
  is scarcely necessary to add, attracted universal attention. When
  pressed to continue, Leslie gave the air from beginning to end, and
  when, at the conclusion, he remarked that it was an old English
  ballad, cold beads of perspiration gathered on the forehead of the
  unhappy composer. His solemn asseveration that he had that evening
  written an original melody to the same air, note for note, was
  received on every hand with apparent unbelief; and in order to verify
  Leslie’s statement, most of those present followed his lead and sang
  or whistled the composition through. The musician, we are told, was
  allowed to play it over, and the resemblance, of course, was so
  striking that he himself began to doubt his own sanity. But when he
  came to know of the trick by which he had been bamboozled, he enjoyed
  the joke as much as those who carried it out.

[Illustration: NOT THE CORRECT WAY OF PUDDING IT.

MASTER GUSSY. Oh, boohoo! What a shame to go throwing plum-pudding about
like that!]

[Illustration: THE HUMANIZING INFLUENCE OF PANTOMIME.

DEPRAVED CHILD. Oh, mamma, do look, the clown’s been and run a red-hot
poker right through that policeman--_isn’t it fun?_]



[Illustration: ON THE STAGE AND OFF

PROMPT BUT NOT PREPARED.

[_The call-boy has just called that distinguished amateur_ Muddle, _who
is doing_ Iago _for the first time_.]

MUDDLE. Very odd! Knew every word of it this morning, too, but I’ll be
hanged if I can remember how it begins!]


[Illustration: A WORDLESS STORY.]

EMMA AND ULPHO

A DRAMA IN FIVE ACTS

WRITTEN FOR EASTER, SANCTIONED BY THE LORD CHAMBERLAIN, BUT REJECTED BY
ALL THE THEATRES.


ACT I.

(_A dark night. The curtain rises, and discovers nobody on the stage._)

(ULPHO _speaks_.) How dark it is.

(_He is answered by a hollow voice which is inaudible._)

ULPHO. I do not feel comfortable, nor as I once did. (_Sighs._)

  (_The stage gradually fills till Ulpho is forced forward to the
  footlights, which go out. The crowd parts asunder suddenly, and a
  figure comes slowly forward._)

FIGURE. (_Says nothing._)

ULPHO. I feel chilly.

  (_Figure smiles contemptuously and puts his hands in his breeches’
  pockets. He then addresses Ulpho silently, and, after hesitating more
  than once, breaks down at last altogether._)


ACT II.

  (_Still darker night. Graves spring their rattles and watchmen open.
  Fate is seen sitting in the background in the shape of a policeman. A
  glow-worm roars, and the side-scenes shake perceptibly. The moon,
  which has been slowly rising, falls suddenly down._)

[Illustration]

ULPHO. Unfortunate moon!

EMMA. Will you never cease to despond?

ULPHO. Nothing on earth shall ever induce me.

  (_He takes his cap from his head, and hangs it carefully on a
  hat-stand. In a fit of desperation he begins to tear his hair from his
  head. Emma sinks into a swoon, and leaving Ulpho in the centre of the
  stage, she goes off at both wings._)


ACT III.

  (_The morning breaks, and is already in many pieces. The first rays of
  the sun are reflected in several hundred dewdrops which are rocking
  themselves in the gently waving brush-wood. Two masks drop from the
  trees and rush on each other’s swords._)

[Illustration]

1ST MASK. Are you dead?

2ND MASK. Only parts of me.

_Enter_ EMMA.

1ST MASK. Lady, may I ask if you have any present intention of giving up
the ghost, if so, perhaps I could----?

EMMA. I am much obliged to you, but I have already made my own
arrangements----

(_A pair of jack-boots are carried across the stage._)

EMMA. Are those, perhaps, the mortal remains of my Ulpho?

(_Ulpho enters in carpet slippers._)

ULPHO. I am still alive, but I wear boots no more.

[Illustration]

  (_The river rises, and a Dragoon Regiment, which has been stationed on
  the opposite bank, are carried away, one by one, by the flood. Ulpho
  fetches an umbrella from the side scenes._)

EMMA. Would we could share it together!

  (_Ulpho is about to give it to her, when a thunderbolt descends, and
  the umbrella falls between them._)

ULPHO. Fate has decided otherwise.

  (_They embrace, and the curtain falls in an agitated manner._)


ACT IV.

(_Enter an old man with a very broad-brimmed hat._)

OLD MAN. Woe! Woe!

ULPHO. What brought _you_ here?

OLD MAN (_wildly_). Can I never preserve my incognito?

  [_He stabs himself._

EMMA (_regarding the body_).

    A fate like his I must admire;
    How pleasant must it be to die?
    Not otherwise would I expire,
    And you, my Ulpho, standing by.

  [_She stabs herself._

ULPHO. Ah! now I feel lighter, better.

  [_He starves himself to death._


ACT V.

_Enter the Duke: A lay figure is also brought on to the stage._

LAY FIGURE. Behold the victims of thy revenge.

  [_Grand scena_--_Furies enter and tear the Duke slowly to pieces. The
  end of the drama now approaches rapidly, and whilst everything is
  trembling in every direction, the Prompter rushes on to the small
  piece of stage still remaining, and stabs himself with a pair of
  snuffers, and_

THE CURTAIN AND THE THEATRE FALL TOGETHER.

  _Punch_, 1844.

[Illustration]


HUMOURS OF THE PLAYHOUSE

[Illustration]

  The function of the stage is a much discussed question. We shall
  assume that it is first and foremost a place of entertainment. Many
  are the comedies, from Shakespeare’s to Shaw’s, that have tickled the
  ribs of the “groundlings,” but there is also about stage performances
  a frequent element of diversion supplied by effects entirely
  unrehearsed. In most cases these “unrehearsed effects” assume the form
  of amusing blunders, in others they may be witty impromptus on the
  part of an actor or an auditor, “gags,” “wheezes,” what not! A
  laughable mistake has often afforded relief to a dull play; while, on
  the other hand, it may have been the means of spoiling an otherwise
  effective scene.

  A curious thing about stage blunders is that, when one of the
  characters makes a mistake it is almost a certainty that some other
  member or members of the cast will follow suit. It is related of
  Charles Matthews, the famous comedian, that if he made one mistake in
  the course of a performance he was sure to commit several blunders
  before the conclusion of the play; this, no doubt, arising from
  over-anxiety to guard against slips. On one occasion he informed an
  astonished audience that he saw “a candle going along a gallery with a
  man in its hand,” and later in the play he stated that he had “locked
  the key and put the door in his pocket.”

  John Kemble, according to an anecdote told of him in Tom Moore’s
  _Diary_, once made a very ludicrous mistake. He was performing one of
  his most famous parts at some country theatre, and, as is common in
  some provincial temples of the Drama, a child had been making its
  presence very pronounced by emitting the shrill noises peculiar to the
  average infant. At last Kemble could bear the infantine interruptions
  no longer, and advancing to the front of the stage he assumed his most
  tragic air and said--“Ladies and gentlemen, unless the play is
  stopped, the child cannot possibly go on.” Kemble’s audience on that
  occasion was not like the one in San Francisco in its early days. An
  opera company was performing in the rowdy city of the “Pacific Slope,”
  when a child in the auditorium created a great disturbance. The burly
  gold-seekers, who mainly composed the audience, ordered the players to
  stop till the child was finished with its entertainment, as an
  infant’s voice was such a rarity in the Wild West at that time that it
  awakened pleasant memories of the old home and tugged at the
  heart-strings of the rough-and-ready miners. This is a genuine
  instance of the play being stopped and “the child going on.”

[Illustration: ENGLISH AS SHE IS SPOKE.

TOUCHSTONE (_to Stage Manager_). ’Ow do you expect me to speak my lines
correct with all that ’owling and ’ooting and ’issing going on in
front?]

[Illustration: CASSIUS.]

[Illustration: ACTING UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

The public insist on seeing their stage favourites, even when they are
not quite fit. A well-known actress sang “Carmen” from a bath-chair
recently. What next?]

  A very amusing mistake is laid to the credit of Quin. On one occasion,
  while he was acting “Judge Balance” in _The Recruiting Officer_, he
  addressed Mrs. Peg Woffington in these terms--

  “Sylvia, what age were you when your dear mother married?”

  Peg made no reply to the embarrassing query, so Quin proceeded--

  “I ask you what age you were when your mother was born?”

  Thus going from bad to worse. The actress fortunately did not lose her
  presence of mind, and replied--

  “I regret I cannot answer your question; but I can tell you how old I
  was when my mother _died_.”

  Amusement is frequently afforded by some member of the audience losing
  himself in the play, and fancying that the scene before him is a page
  from real life. When such incidents occur, they form excellent
  testimonials to the dramatic abilities of the actors. A striking
  instance of this kind is related in connexion with the late Fanny
  Kemble. It occurred while she was appearing in Philadelphia as
  “Juliet.” She had just repeated the lines--

    What’s here? A cup close in my true love’s hand?
    Poison, I see, has been his timeless end--

  when a tall, lanky, medical student in a stage box, who had evidently
  been deeply absorbed in the scene, thrust his hat on his head in great
  excitement, crying out in a voice that could be heard all over the
  theatre--“Keep him up, Juliet; I’ll run and fetch the stomach pump.”

  An incident of a similar nature occurred many years ago at the London
  Princess Theatre. A well-known conveyancer, noted for absence of mind,
  during a performance of _Macbeth_, one of the witches replying to the
  Thane, that they were “doing a deed without a name,” started up
  exclaiming, to the bewilderment of the audience--“A ’deed without a
  name’! Why, it’s void. It’s not worth sixpence!” The last time Kean
  played _Louis XI_ at the Edinburgh Theatre Royal, a young Irishman who
  had been sitting spellbound in the stalls, after the attendants had
  proclaimed, “The King is dead!” exclaimed, “And may the Lord have
  mercy on his guilty soul.”

[Illustration: THE EVER-POPULAR CRIMINAL ON THE STAGE.

Criminals (on the stage) are extraordinarily popular. In real life, we
do not like being stolen from. On the stage, we love to see a fine,
dashing criminal stealing from other people. The worse he is, the louder
we applaud him.]

[Illustration: ON THE STAGE-- --AND OFF.]

  Sometimes a voice from the “gods” may be the means of swamping a play.
  This was the case with the only dramatic piece ever written by Miss
  Braddon, the famous novelist. In one of the acts a child was kidnapped
  from its mother, and at the end, when all the characters in the play
  were being made happy, the restoration of the child was taken for
  granted. This was a dramatic mistake, and while suited for a novel,
  was not to be accepted in the theatre. The omission passed unnoticed
  for half a minute after the fall of the curtain; then one of the
  “gods” leaned over the gallery and coolly inquired--“What about the
  kid?” The piece was doomed in the uncontrollable peals of laughter
  that followed.

  Instances where members of a cast, through ignorance or forgetfulness,
  take some scene or dialogue literally, are most mirth-moving, if
  somewhat rare. A highly entertaining instance of this kind occurred
  once when John Kemble was playing _Hamlet_ in a country town. An
  actor, who was sustaining the part of “Guilderstein,” was, or imagined
  himself to be, a capable musician. “Hamlet,” in the usual course of
  the play, asked him--

  “Will you play upon this pipe?”

  “My Lord, I cannot.”

  “I do beseech you.”

  “Well, if your lordship insists upon it, I will do as well as I can.”

  And to the great consternation of “Hamlet” and the amazement of the
  audience, he proceeded to play “God Save the King.”

  A delightful piece of literalism is told about a property man who on
  one occasion was deputizing at a rehearsal of _Macbeth_ in which a
  well-known actor was filling the title rôle. Here is a scrap of the
  dialogue--

  _Property Man._ As I looked towards Birnam, anon, methought the wood
  began to move.

  _Macbeth_: Liar and slave!

  _P.M._: S’help me bob, sir, the blokes told me to say so.

  To ludicrous instances there is no end; but perhaps one of the most
  comical occurred in a wretched little French theatre during the time
  of the first Revolution. Madame de Larme, who was playing “Juliet” on
  the occasion, was lying in the death scene on a tombstone. Outside, it
  was raining in torrents. A drop came through the roof and fell on
  “Juliet’s” nose. She made a face. Another drop found its way to her
  eyelid. She winked. Finally, she took to watching the drops and
  dodging them. The situation was at once appreciated by the audience,
  and it sympathized with the actress.

  “Look out, Mrs. Juliet,” said one fellow, “there’s a big one coming. I
  see it.”

  “Mind your eye,” said another.

  “Madame,” said a third, rising, “will you accept my umbrella?”

  But “Juliet” bore up bravely to the end, and finished the scene amid
  the applause of a sympathetic audience.

  In a Glasgow theatre some forty years ago, the playgoers were treated
  to a very diverting scene that was not in the programme. The play was
  _After Dark_, and in one of the acts there is a very exciting railway
  scene in which a train crosses the stage just as one of the characters
  who has been tied to the rails is released. The manner in which the
  train is manipulated is very simple. A number of men, concealed behind
  it, run across the stage. On this occasion the man who was working the
  engine tripped and fell, carrying the engine with him, when about
  halfway across the stage. The man in charge of the tender, not having
  time to clear out of the way, fell over the engine-keeper, and the
  third fell over him, the curtain being run down on the most exciting
  railway disaster that ever occurred in Stageland, the audience
  laughing heartily the while.

[Illustration: WHEN ACTORS ARE MEMBERS OF PARLIAMENT.]

[Illustration: WHEN ACTORS BECOME MODEST.]

[Illustration: COMEDIAN. Is your play still running?

TRAGEDIAN. No--but the manager is!]

  At a theatre in Glasgow the writer witnessed a very amusing incident
  in the course of a representation of _Theodora_ by Miss Grace
  Hawthorne’s Company. There is a tremendously “bluggy” scene in this
  drama, which closes with the heroine standing in the middle, while a
  collection of corpses strew the stage. On the night in question the
  drop curtain refused to perform its office, and after coming half-way
  down complacently stuck there. The dead bodies lay in dreadful
  suspense for some time, and then in despair got up and walked off!

[Illustration: BILL. See that cove, ’Arry? He takes the part of Hamlet.

’ARRY. Well, good luck to him if the bloke’s in the right.]

  While this immensely delighted a nineteenth-century audience as an
  absurdity, it appears to have been quite the custom on the Restoration
  Stage, when players “died” in front of the curtain and were either
  carried off or walked away afterwards! This is seen from the famous
  epilogue spoken by Nell Gwynne in Dryden’s _Tyrannick Love_. She
  played a serious part on this occasion, and in the last act stabs
  herself twice, and dies. She lies dead on the stage; then, when the
  bearer comes to carry her off, she starts to her feet, exclaiming--

  “Hold! Are you mad? You damned confounded dog! I am to rise and speak
  the epilogue.”

[Illustration: GOOD AND BAD BUSINESS AT THE THEATRE.

When a play is a success the theatre-goer is treated with less
consideration than when it is a failure. In the latter case he is
overwhelmed with attention and kind words.]

[Illustration]

  Stage “waves” have often afforded no little amusement to the audience.
  The troubled ocean is simulated on the stage by a number of men lying
  on their backs under a painted canvas, kicking their legs and throwing
  their arms about with a certain amount of regularity, the men being
  blindfolded to prevent the dust getting into their eyes. During a
  performance of the _Black Flag_, at Dundee, a scene in which the waves
  were required was introduced and went with its usual success till one
  evening the curtain got entangled with the sea-cloth, and on the
  former being raised it carried the latter with it, exposing to the
  view of the audience the group of wave-makers lying on their backs
  vainly kicking the air. The audience, of course, screamed with
  laughter, which set the wave men wondering, and, thinking something
  was amiss, they unfastened the bandages over their eyes and discovered
  their undignified positions, quitting the stage with the greatest
  rapidity. The audience were not in a mood for settling down to watch
  the surging sea after this, and the remainder of the scene was omitted
  from that performance.

  In this connexion the experience of a well-known comedian who started
  his career as a humble “wave,” will afford the reader some merriment.
  He writes:--“At last the shipwreck came on, and I was hustled under
  the sea-cloth along with a dozen other ‘supes.’ Our business was to
  make the sea rise in its might and wreck the gallant ship. We had been
  repeatedly cautioned at rehearsal not to use our hands, but to go down
  on all fours and produce the foaming billows by ‘humping’ our backs up
  and down. This was a very trying exercise; it was much easier to use
  our hands, though it gave to the rolling billows a jagged and
  unnatural appearance, and when the dry white paint sifted freely
  through the cloth, covering us up, choking and blinding us as the
  climax approached, I commenced in a fit of desperation to use my
  hands, so as to dodge the foam as much as possible, and keep it from
  totally blinding me. But I was soon perceived by the stage carpenter,
  who instantly dived under the cloth, labouring under wild excitement,
  and commenced cursing me in dumb show for not ‘humping’ my back as I
  had been told to do. He was so fierce that I quickly edged away from
  him. This made him worse. He signalled me to come back. I edged away a
  little further, and a moment later stood up through a hole in the
  cloth, as big as a barn door, in the midst of the angry breakers, and
  covered from head to foot with the white powder. There was not a sound
  in the house until I gave a terrible ‘chahoo!’ and suddenly dived back
  under the waves. Then you could not have heard the report of an
  eighty-ton gun a hundred yards away.”

[Illustration: DISTINGUISHED AMATEUR (_who has been cast for the part of
Sir Toby Belch_). I suppose I shall want a little padding?

COSTUMIER. Certainly. (_Shouting_) Ernest, bring down a full-size
stomach!]

  A very droll interruption occurred one evening in a St. Helens theatre
  when the late Signor Foli was singing. The celebrated bass had just
  finished the first verse of his favourite song, “The Raft,” when a
  baby started squalling, and still continued as he began the second
  verse, commencing--

    Hark! What sound is that
    Which greets the mother’s ear?

  but he got no further, being seized with uncontrollable laughter,
  which for the moment puzzled the audience, but presently it dawned
  upon them that the next line was--

    ’Tis, ’tis a baby’s voice;

  and they joined the Signor in his mirth. He left the stage for a
  moment, and returned and sang in his exquisite style “Out on the
  Deep.”

[Illustration: THE ACTOR’S ONE TOPIC--HIMSELF.

Actors are charming people, but unfortunately they are so keen about
their work, that their thoughts constantly recur to it, and they cannot
keep their own latest achievements out of the talk. A lunch at an
actors’ club is apt, in consequence, to be a trifle monotonous.]

[Illustration: A SIDE-BOX TALK.

ROGUY AND POGUY.

ROGUY. See that girl looking at me, Poguy?

POGUY. Don’t I? I declare she can’t keep her eyes off you.

ROGUY. What women care for, Poguy, my boy, is not features, but
expression.

  [_He pokes Poguy in the waistcoat._]

  Many good stories are told of the facetiousness of Dublin audiences.
  Here is one that Macready used to relate:--One night while performing
  “Pierre” in _Venice Preserved_, the Jaffier, an actor ponderous in
  person as well as in style, was drowsing out his dying speech, when a
  voice from the gallery exclaimed, “Ah, now, die at once!” to which
  another from the opposite side of the house responded, “Hould your
  tongue, you blackguard!” then, in a patronising tone to the Jaffier,
  “Take your time now!”

  There was humour, and what is often much akin to that, pathos, in the
  appeal wrung from the unlucky representative of crook-backed Richard,
  who, finding it impossible to make head against the disapprobation
  evoked by his histrionic efforts, dropped blank verse, and in very
  plain prose told his audience--“Mr. Kean is playing this part in
  London at a salary of thirty pounds a night; I receive but fifteen
  shillings a week; and if it isn’t good enough for the money, may
  Heaven give you more humanity!”

  At a crowded country theatre in France a woman fell from the gallery
  into the pit, and was picked up by one of the spectators, who, hearing
  her groaning, asked her if she was much injured. “Much injured!”
  exclaimed the woman; “I should think I am. I have lost the best seat
  in the very middle of the front row.”

[Illustration]


THE BALD BARON

OR, THE FALSE HEIR AND THE ABSENT WILL

A SENSATIONAL DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS.

[Illustration: BALD BARON. Alas, noble stranger, my heir was taken off
eighty years ago!]

[Illustration: NOBLE STRANGER. Yer’s a-go--old man, be-hold thy
long-lost chyield.]

(_They embrace._)

  [CURTAIN.


ACT I.

[Illustration: AGNES. Oh, agonies! sixty years have I waited for my
Willie. Oh, will _he never come_.]

[Illustration: (_Enter_) FALSE HEIR. Beauteous Screecher, fly with
me--(_Agnes faints_)--ha, ha, she’s mine. Away!]

[Illustration: (_Enter_ WILL.) Where there’s a will there’s a way.]

  [CURTAIN.


ACT II.

[Illustration: _Scene, the private pass and the seedy glen._]

[Illustration: WILL. Treachery; I’ve got a drop too much.]

[Illustration: FALSE HEIR. One down, who’ll make two?

AGNES (_suddenly entering_). Vill-ian--you!]

  [CURTAIN.


ACT III.

[Illustration: Terrific combat of many hours’ duration.]

[Illustration: FALSE HEIR (_mortally wounded_). My time has come--Here
are the papers--You are the Baron de la Bluebags.]

  [_Grand display of blue-fire, and fall of_ CURTAIN.


ACT IV.



[Illustration: FUN AT THE PLAY

HE. Excuse me, madam, but you are sitting on my hat.

SHE. Oh, I’m so sorry; I thought it was my husband’s.]


[Illustration: THE DELIGHTS OF THEATRE-GOING.

The pleasures of the cloak-room. No less than one attendant to each
million hats and coats. Charge only sixpence (exclusive of tip), and
every customer is allowed to fish out his own wearing apparel from the
pile, if he can find it. Each attendant guaranteed to be innocent of all
knowledge of figures, so that every client gets the wrong things. This
adds a gambling interest to the general scuffle.]

[Illustration: THE DELIGHTS OF THEATRE-GOING.

The unmannerly rush for drinks and smokes between the acts. As the space
between the rows of seats is so narrow, the drinking brigade have to
tread on those they leave behind, tearing frocks, smashing corns, and
elbowing inoffensive ladies and gentlemen in the face.]


SCENERY AND COSTUME OF THE STAGE

  We must assume there is something very peculiar in the rural
  landscapes and the town residences inhabited by the dramatic
  population, if the haunts of their rustics and the dwelling-places of
  their citizens are to be judged by the representations of these places
  which we see upon the British stage. The dramatic idea of the country
  consists usually of a series of set pieces, backed by a six-inch deal
  bridge, surmounting a two-foot waterfall, and leading to a profile
  cottage of such diminutive dimensions that when the feet of any one
  entering it are on the basement, his head soars into the second story,
  and he cannot, without doubling himself completely up, go either in or
  out of the door. In some cases the cottages have no pretension to
  habitable qualities, but are simply “made out” of a single piece of
  canvas, on which a clearly “impracticable” window is painted, and
  which the business of the scene does not require to be opened, the
  cottage being only needed as the cue for some song or sentiment, such
  as “Ah! that humble cot--how its aspect makes me sigh for Home, Sweet
  Home!” or, “The sight of that lowly roof makes me feel no envy for
  pampered pride in its palace, or venal villany in its villa; for I am
  convinced more and more of the beautiful truth, that it is in the
  cottage alone contentment can be found.”

[Illustration: DAUGHTER. What do you think of the quartette?

GRUMPY FATHER. Humph, won’t take as long as four solos!]

[Illustration: “My dear Lady Thompson, I had no idea you’d broken your
arm.”

“Don’t be alarmed, dear. These horrid people would never have let Fido
in, so I had recourse to a little ruse!”]

  Sometimes there is, by way of background, a castle, frightfully
  foreshortened, with its battlements half a yard high, and its towers
  towering among the sky-borders, while its foundations rest on a rock
  no higher than the top of the low comedian’s hat; but the structure is
  sufficient to admit of its being apostrophized by some young gentleman
  in hessians and a chocolate surtout as “Deserted halls of my
  ancestors, whose pavements have rung to the clang of the usurper’s
  hoof, and whose donjon-keep has echoed to the noisy revels of a
  stranger band.” When the occasion is an operatic one, the distant
  castle forms an admirable subject for something like the following--

  RECITATIVE.

    Long cherished pile--home of my ancient sires,
    Your aspect kindles all my youthful fires;
    And when your sainted towers salute mine eyes,
    Within my breast revengeful feelings rise.

  Every playgoer is familiar with the “mossy bank” of dramatic rural
  scenery, with one end slightly elevated for the head of the weary
  wayfarer or benighted traveller, and a bit of an old bolster craftily
  crammed underneath the canvas to complete the mossiness of the
  contrivance.

  The town scenery of the stage is not less peculiar than its
  landscapes, and the exteriors are particularly adapted for teaching
  “what to avoid” to the youthful architect. If young _Dashington_ calls
  upon _Lord Toplofty_, the latter lounges lazily out of the first-floor
  French window, in which his head and shoulders are a pretty tight fit,
  while the former bears about the same proportion to the house that the
  peasant bears to the cottage we have already been speaking of. It is a
  singular fact that the inside of any one room is no sooner represented
  to us, than we find it to be much larger than the whole house when
  judged by its external appearance; and though the mansion itself may
  be only ten feet high from the basement to the tip of the topmost
  chimney-pot, the smallest apartment is found to be as wide as the
  wings are apart, and as lofty as the proscenium.

[Illustration: A MORNING CONCERT.

WIFE. George! George! You are not in church!]

  In costume, the stage presents some really astounding phenomena; and
  we have often been struck by the similarity of the dresses worn by the
  retainers of every country, every age, and indeed of almost every
  family. One would think that the word retainer referred to the fact of
  the same habiliments being always retained under all circumstances,
  whether the wearer happens to be a creature of the house of Hapsburg,
  a vassal of a Norman noble, or a member of a bellowing band of Swiss
  patriots, shouting such choruses as the following:--

    Then onwards to freedom;
      Our tyrants shall know,
    No longer we need ’em;
      Let’s join in the blow:
    Yes, out let us weed ’em,
      And lay them all low.
      Oh! oh! oh! oh! oh!

      While our blood
      In a flood
      We’ll freely let flow.
      Oh! oh! oh! oh! oh!
    _Echo (by the Prompter) in the mountains,_
      Oh! oh! oh! oh!

  _Punch._

[Illustration]

[Illustration: PIT, BOXES AND GALLERY.]


ASS YOU LIKE IT

    “Ass in præsenti.”--_Eton Latin Grammar._

  The forthcoming show of donkeys promises to be a great success. The
  only difficulty that seems to us likely to embarrass the manager is
  the selection of a locality large enough for the exhibition. If but a
  tenth part of the asses in the metropolis make an exhibition of
  themselves on this, as they are apt to do on ordinary occasions,
  nothing smaller than the grounds of the Crystal Palace or the
  Alexandra Park could possibly accommodate them.

  The following, we believe, are already entered:--

  An egregious ass, that believes in the speedy subjugation of the
  Confederates by the Federals in America.

  An awful donkey, who prefers Tupper to Tennyson.

  An old ass, who, by means of false teeth, tight waist, a wig, and
  rouge, imagines himself a lady-killer.

  A young ass, who, by smoking strong cigars until he is sick, imagines
  himself manly.

  Several thundering donkeys, who are always sending money anonymously
  to the Chancellor of the Exchequer for unpaid income-tax.

  A still larger number of even more hopeless asses, who patronize
  quack-doctors, cheap, puffing tailors, delineators of character by
  handwriting, and other advertising swindles.

  An irreclaimable ass (supposed to be the only one living), who does
  not see any merit in FUN. The greatest ass alive.

  There are several others we could mention, but the astounding asinine
  qualities of the last-named donkey have quite taken away our breath.
  In the forthcoming “competitive examination, of donkeys,” let him by
  all means bear away the prize!

  _Fun_, 1863.

[Illustration: PLAYGOERS AND THEIR ECCENTRICITIES.

Chief eccentricity is the amazing mania for rushing out of the theatre
before anybody else, in order that you may stand firmly at the door,
preventing everybody from getting away.]

[Illustration: CREDIT WHERE CREDIT IS DUE.

At a theatrical first night there were loud cries on the part of the
audience for the scene painter, whose splendid work had contributed
largely to the success of the piece. Now certain other functionaries in
theatres think they should be called out also.]

[Illustration: A “CIVIL” RETORT.

CAPTAIN DE PLUNGER. I say! aw--you tha-ar--are you, aw--the boxkeepar?

CIVILIAN FELLOW. No, my boy; I’m not. Are you?]

       *       *       *       *       *


HAMLET’S LAST SOLILOQUY

(From _Fun_, 1863.)

    Alas! alas! and hath it come to this,
    That I, no longer _Hamlet_, play the _Ghost_?
    And such a _Ghost_! No old time-honoured vision,
    In coat of pasteboard trimm’d with gleaming foil,
    With whiten’d visage, and with grizzled wig.
    But a mere base delusion of the eye;
    A mirror’d image in a showman’s glass,
    A conjuror’s trick to set a crowd agape,
    I stand, forsooth, upon an English stage
    To watch a strutting Frenchman ape my prince!
    I to be such a _Ghost_ as this? Yes, I,
    Who’ve been the _Hamlet_ of some score of years;
    Whose face, shape, elocution, manner, all
    Mark me the hero’s true and very self!
    _I_ play the _Ghost_? For me the _Ghost_ may go
    To his “sulphureous and”--I mean elsewhere.
    Help me! ye Britons! from the Wells of Sadler!
    Help me! ye powers of earthly Chancery!
    Keen-sighted Wood, and most judicious Westbury,
    Help me! I cry. It is your Phelps that calls!

  [_Rushes out at the rate of £40 a week._



[Illustration: AMONG THE AMATEURS]


AT THE MASQUERADE

    I know ’twas not the proper thing to do,
    And yet I thought it would be jolly too,
    To go alone to that swell masquerade,
    And so I did it. Well my plans were laid.
    My wife of my intentions naught did know.
    I told her, out of town I had to go,
    And she believed me. Leaving her to stay
    At home, I went and danced in costume gay.
    I had been at the ball an hour or so,
    When some one introduced a domino.
    I saw that she was plump and graceful, and
    She had a pretty little foot and hand.
    Her eyes, I noticed, flashed like diamonds bright,
    Though plump, she waltzed divinely; feather light,
    And then she flirted with most perfect art,
    It isn’t singular I lost my heart.
    Soon my sweet charmer I began to ask
    To step into an alcove and unmask!
    To let me see the lovely face I’d swear
    Was hid behind that mask. My lady fair
    At first refused. I pleaded long and hard;
    Declared my life forever would be marred,
    Unless her cruelty she would relent.
    My pleading won, at last, a shy consent.
    Her face she would permit my eyes to view,
    If I unmasked, the selfsame instant; too.
    The dancing-hall had alcoves all around,
    And soon in one of these ourselves we found;
    The alcove was, for two, the proper size,
    And passing dancers would not recognize
    You, for the light was dim within the niche,
    And flowers, about, their perfume gave. My witch
    Her mask removed. I meantime did the same.
    “My wife!” “My husband!” So we did exclaim.
    The truth we neither of us had mistrusted,
    And each was disappointed and disgusted.

[Illustration: AT A FANCY BALL. VOICE WITHIN (_to waiter_). I’m
starving! For goodness sake, get a can opener. I can’t get this beastly
visor up.]

[Illustration]


THE AMATEUR FLUTE-PLAYER

            Hear the fluter with his flute,
                 Silver flute!
    Oh, what a world of wailing is awakened by its toot!
            How it demi-semi-quavers,
              On the maddened air of night!
            And defieth all endeavours
              To escape the sound or sight
            Of the flute, flute, flute,
              With its tootle, tootle, toot,
    With reiterated tootings of exasperated toots.
    The long-protracted tootings of agonizing toots,
            Of the flute, flute, flute, flute,
            Flute, flute, flute,
    And the wheezing and the spittings of its toots.

        Should he get that other flute--
                  Golden flute--
    Oh, what a deeper anguish will its presence institoot!
        How his eyes to heaven he’ll raise
                  As he plays
                  All the days!
            How he’ll stop us on our ways
                  With its praise;
        And the people--oh, the people!
        That don’t live up in the steeple,
        But inhabit Christian parlours
        Where he visiteth and plays--
            Where he plays, plays, plays
            In the cruellest of ways,
        And thinks we ought to listen,
            And expects us to be mute,
        Who would rather have the earache
          Than the music of his flute--
            Of his flute, flute, flute,
            And the tooting of his toot--
    Of the toot wherein he tooteleth his agonizing toot
            Of the fluet, fluit, floot.
            Phlute, phlewt, phlewght,
    And the tootle-tootle-tooting of his toot.

[Illustration: PRIVATE THEATRICALS--THE MOUSTACHES.

LADY B. (_a wicked Marquis_). But have you made me fierce enough,
Charles?

CHARLES. Fierce!--ferocious!]

[Illustration]


ONLY SEVEN

A PASTORAL STORY, AFTER WORDSWORTH.

    I marvelled why that simple child
      Made faces like the Gorgons,
    And clapt its hands, with moanings wild,
      On its digestive organs.

    Adopting a parental tone,
      I asked her why she cried,
    The damsel answered with a groan,
      “I’ve got a pain inside.”

    “I thought it would have sent me mad
      Last night about eleven”;
    Said I, “What is it makes you bad?
    How many apples have you had?”
      She answered, “Only seven!”

    “And are you sure you took no more,
      My little maid?” quoth I.
    “Oh! please, sir, mother gave me four,
      “But _they_ were in a pie!”

    “If that’s the case,” I stammered out,
      “Of course you’ve had eleven”;
    The maiden answered with a pout,
      “I ain’t had more nor seven!”

    I wondered hugely what she meant,
      And said, “I’m bad at riddles,
    But I know where little girls are sent
      For telling taradiddles.

    “Now, if you don’t reform,” said I,
      “You’ll never go to heaven.”
    But all in vain; each time I cry,
    That little idiot makes reply,
      “I ain’t had more nor seven!”

    POSTSCRIPT.

    To borrow Wordsworth’s name was wrong,
      Or slightly misapplied;
    And so I’d better call my song,
      “Lines after Ache-inside.”

  _Fun_, 1865.

[Illustration: PRIVATE THEATRICALS AT THE TITWILLOWS’.

Mr. Titwillow, having undertaken a comic part, is about to render his
appearance more effective by reddening the tip of his dear little nose.
His wife, mother, and sister, in a passionate appeal to his nobler
feelings, implore him not to desecrate his dignity by such an act.

  [_His bosom friend cynically contemplates the touching family scene._]


LYCEUM LYRICS

(_After Ben Jonson._)

    It is not being underlined,
        Six months that leaves the rest behind;
    Or standing long a joke that makes us here
    Less valued by the public eye and ear.
        The “super” in his way
        Is happier, so they say,
    Although he fights for eighteenpence a night,
    Than he who has talents he can’t bring to light;
    In small proportions we tragedians see
    Who can attain what they would like to be.

(_After Herrick._)

    Gather your laurels whilst ye may,
      The season on is flying,
    And make your audience smile to-day,
      To-morrow set them crying.
    A good tragedian, when there’s one,
      Much money may be getting,
    But longer dramas have a run
      The nearer he’s to fretting.

(_After Lovelace._)

    Large type does not an actor make,
      Nor theatre-walls a cage,
    Minds unambitious then may take
      The salary they engage.
    If I can’t get the parts I love,
      At least, let me be free,
    Another theatre yet may prove
      My right to liberty.

  --_Fun_, 1863.

[Illustration]



[Illustration: THE POETS’ CORNER

PORTRAIT OF A GENTLEMAN

In the act of writing a funny poem, that will make you die of laughing
when you read it.

  [_The enlarged photograph on the wall represents the same party when
  not engaged in comic composition._]


THE POETS AT PLAY

[Illustration]

  Addison in his _Papers on Wit_ makes vigorous onslaught against “false
  wit.” “The first species of false wit which I have met with is
  venerable for its antiquity, and has produced several pieces which
  have lived very near as long as the _Iliad_ itself; I mean those short
  poems printed among the minor Greek poets, which resemble the figure
  of an egg, a pair of wings, an axe, a shepherd’s pipe, and an altar.”

  Further on, he says, referring to these conceits, “the poetry was to
  contract or dilate itself according to the mould in which it was cast.
  In a word, the verses were to be cramped or extended to the dimensions
  of the frame that was prepared for them, and to undergo the fate of
  those persons whom the tyrant Procustes used to lodge in his iron bed;
  if they were too short he stretched them on a rack; and if they were
  too long he chopped off a part of their legs, till they fitted the
  couch which he had prepared for them.”

  Most people accept this dictum of Addison as a final pronouncement on
  the distinction between true and false wit; but on further
  consideration it may be found that “much can be said on the other
  side.” Addison asserts that the matter must suffer if it has to be
  squeezed into a certain shape. This may be so, but it need not be much
  more so in the forming of a pair of wings in verse, than in the
  construction of a sonnet. Every sonnet, no matter how inspired, must
  follow an artificial measure, every poem, be it never so soulful, must
  have a definite number of feet in each of its lines and a preconceived
  arrangement; yet, no one advances the opinion that Scott was wasting
  his sense of poetry by casting it in the form of octo-syllabic verse,
  or that Shakespeare had a difficulty in fitting his thoughts to the
  measure of his sonnets or the blank verse of his plays.

[Illustration: THE POETS ILLUSTRATED.

  1.--“For, indeed, my father did something smack--.”--MERCHANT OF
  VENICE.

  2.--“Take any shape but that!”--MACBETH.

  3.--“Light only on the box.”--BRYANT AND MAY.

  4.--“--sigh to think that he had found
       His warmest welcome at an inn.”--SHENSTONE.]

       *       *       *       *       *

  The most that can be advanced against those poetic conceits of the
  kind condemned by Addison is that they appeal in a greater degree to
  the eye than to the ear, and while we may be conscious of their
  artificial nature we should also be catholic enough to admit their
  ingenuity, and when they are sufficiently amusing to provoke laughter,
  or excite a smile, they should not be denied the attributes of wit;
  for, after all, when we free ourselves from the suspicion of
  affectation, do we not agree that the chief end of wit is to amuse?

[Illustration: NO! DON’T. (PERIOD 1854.)

“So they are sending out books to amuse the poor fellows at Scutari--and
very proper. I will send five-and-twenty copies of my last five-act
tragedy of ‘The Roman Grandmother.’”]

  These remarks have been suggested to the writer by his discovering in
  one of his old scrap-books a little collection of curiosities of verse
  culled in Bookland byways “oompty” years ago. These do not consist of
  specimens of the minor Greek poets’ eccentricities, but in every case
  they are examples of what Addison would have unhesitatingly catalogued
  as “false wit”; and yet, not only are some of them genuinely amusing
  and others highly ingenious, but several display a painstaking which
  almost amounts to genius--if genius be “the capacity for taking
  pains.”

  We can, for example, appreciate the immense industry of the author who
  set himself to compose a series, of verses in which the letter “e”
  should be entirely omitted, and the painstaking of the author will be
  yet further acknowledged when it is known that “e” is the most used
  letter in the English alphabet, the relative proportion of its use
  being 120 times to j 4, k 8, g 17, and i 40.

  There are two such pieces among the writer’s literary curiosities and
  he regards them as, perhaps, the most unique. The first one is as
  follows--

    John Knox was a man of wondrous might,
      And his words ran high and shrill,
    For bold and stout was his spirit bright,
      And strong was his stalwart will.

    Kings sought in vain his mind to chain,
      And that giant brain to control,
    But naught on plain or stormy main
      Could daunt that mighty soul.

    John would sit and sigh till morning cold
      Its shining lamp put out,
    For thoughts untold on his mind laid hold,
      And brought but pain and doubt.

    But light at last on his soul was cast,
      Away sank pain and sorrow--
    His soul is gay in a fair to-day
      And looks for a bright to-morrow.

  The first word in the second line of the third stanza is evidently a
  misprint. “Night’s” is most likely the word used by the author,
  meaning that the coming of the morn extinguished the stars--

    Night’s shining lights put out.

  Here is the other specimen, which is even more ingenious than that
  just quoted, each stanza containing every member of the alphabet
  except the letter “e”--

    Bold Nassaw quits his caravan
      A hazy mountain grot to scan;
    Climbs jaggy rocks to spy his way,
      Doth tax his sight, but far doth stray.

    Not work of man nor sport of child
      Finds Nassaw in that mazy wild;
    Lax grow his joints, limbs toil in vain;
      Poor wight, why didst thou quit that plain?

    Vainly for succour Nassaw calls;
      Know Zillah that thy Nassaw falls,
    But prowling wolf and fox may joy
      To quarry on thy Arab boy.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

  A happy thought is well worked out in the following quaint little _jeu
  d’esprit_ which the writer came across in an old magazine many years
  ago. If you read it line after line you will find the author
  cheerfully contemplating the prospect of matrimony; but if you only
  read each alternate line you will discover him to be a confirmed old
  bachelor--

    I always did intend
      To take to me a wife,
    Single my life to spend
      Would grieve my very life.

    It much delighteth me
      To think upon a bride,
    To live from woman free
      I can’t be satisfied.

    A female, to my mind,
      The joy I can’t express,
    I ne’er expect to find
      So great in singleness.

    A bachelor to live
      I never would agree,
    My mind I freely give
      A married man to be.

  A somewhat common form of poetic conceit is the arranging into one
  intelligent poem of lines from a number of well-known poets and thus
  forming what may be called a mosaic of verses. I here print one of the
  best examples of this kind that I have come across; the author, like
  those of the “e”-less verses, is unknown to fame--

    I only knew she came and went,                     _Powell._
      Like troutlets in a pool;                          _Hood._
    She was a phantom of delight,                  _Wordsworth._
      And I was like a fool.                          _Eastman._

    “One kiss, dear maid,” I said, and sighed,      _Coleridge._
      Out of those lips unshorn,                   _Longfellow._
    She shook her ringlets round her head            _Stoddard._
      And laughed in merry scorn.                    _Tennyson._

    Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,           _Tennyson._
      You heard them, oh, my heart;                _Alice Cary._
    ’Tis twelve at night by the castle clock,       _Coleridge._
      Beloved, we must part.                       _Alice Cary._

    “Come back, come back!” she cried in grief,      _Campbell._
      My eyes are dim with tears                _Bayard Taylor._
    How shall I live through all the days?             _Osgood._
      All through a hundred years?                _T. S. Parry._

    ’Twas in the prime of summer time,                   _Hood._
      She blessed me with her hand;                      _Hoyt._
    We strayed together, deeply blest                 _Edwards._
      Into the dreaming land.                        _Cornwall._

    The laughing bridal roses blow,                   _Patmore._
      To dress her dark-brown hair;             _Bayard Taylor._
    My heart is breaking with my woe,                _Tennyson._
      Most beautiful! Most rare!                         _Read._

    I clasped it on her sweet, cold hand,            _Browning._
      The precious golden link!                         _Smith._
    I calmed her fears, and she was calm,           _Coleridge._
      Drink, pretty creature, drink!”              _Wordsworth._

    And so I won my Genevieve,                      _Coleridge._
      And walked in Paradise;                          _Hervey._
    The fairest thing that ever grew               _Wordsworth._
      Atween me and the skies!                         _Osgood._

  The composite poem thus formed may not be praised for beauty of
  thought, for absolute sequence of expression; but it is certainly a
  most ingenious composition and a monument of literary research.

  The remarkable sibilance of the English language is cleverly
  exaggerated in the following lines, which are commended to the
  attention of those who lisp--

    Susanna Snooks sings sad, sweet songs, she sees soft summer skies;
    Strange sunset shades sift silently--she somewhat sadly sighs.
    Soliloquizingly she strays, sweet songsters shyly sing.
    She sees slim spruces’ slanting shades surround some sparkling
        spring.

    Still southward silently she strays. She spies shy Simon Slade.
    “Stop, Simon!” says Susanna Snooks. Still sifts sweet sunset’s
        shade.
    Shy Simon six snug satisfying squeezes slyly stole;
    Susanna snickered. Simon stayed. Sick, silly, spoony soul!

    Susanna’s sire saw some shy, suspicious stranger stray.
    Saw Susan say, “Stop, Simon Slade.” Saw simple Simon stay.
    Stern sire sought some solid stick--serenely, slyly slipped.
    Susanna saw. She shrilly shrieked, “Skip, Simon!” Simon skipped.

  Needless to say these diverting lines were written and published
  originally beyond the westering wave.

[Illustration: THE POETS ILLUSTRATED.

  1.--“Dip forward under starry light.”--TENNYSON.

  2.--“It sounds to him like her mother’s _Weiss_
  Singing----”--LONGFELLOW.

  3.--“Off with his head.”--CIBBER.

  4.--“A pouncet box which ever an I anon
       He gave his nose, and took’t away again,
       ... and still he smiled.”--SHAKESPEARE.

  5.--“Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark
      Our coming, and grow brighter when we come.”--BYRON.

  6.--“Lightly they’ll speak of the spirit that’s gone.”--WOLFE.

  7.--“That we may call these delicate creatures ours--
      But not their appetites.”--SHAKESPEARE.]


[Illustration: COUNTRY CRITIC (_who the previous evening patronised
“Muggins’ Travelling Theatre”_). They poets just are clever chaps, and
noa mistake! I see a thing last night as I never wishes to see not noa
better. Darned if I doant thin’k that _Mariar Martin, or the Red Baarn_
arn’t the best play as ever Muster Shakespeare wroat!--(_Period_
1865.)]


MOTLEY’S KINGDOM

BY BROBERT ROWNING.

    There once was a time, long ago,
    When the sages were rulers, you know,

    When men from all parts of the globe
    Would seek them, their wisdom to probe,

    And ask their opinion (no counsel’s
    Like that which your lawyer in town sells.

    But sapient and noble advice
    That now you can get at no price).

    But the sages got terribly pestered,
    For those they advised for the best, erred

    In doing their best, then in rages
    Laid all of the blame on the sages;

    While now and then one (you ’twas rude’ll
    Allow) said each sage was a noodle!

    Meanwhile, no less, morning and night
    From all parts of the earth, left and right.

    From north, and from south, east, and west
    For advice--_gratis_--all the world prest.

    Said the sages, “We’re too much admired!
    Let’s retire.” So the sages retired,

    And then to extremes rushing hotly,
    Took cap and bells, bauble, and motley,

    In _that_ disguise guided the throng,
    Not by showing the right but the wrong,

    And found to their wonderment great
    ’Tis more easy to keep people straight

    By lashing for errors they make
    Then showing the right road to take.

    And this, don’t you see, is the way
    The whole world is governed to-day.

    Men have long ceased the sages to pester
    But bow to the rule of the jester.

    Well--_Ridentem quid dicere verum
    Vetat?_--If the people will hear ’um!

    So, there, now my story is done--
    And the moral! Why, that you see’s FUN.

  _Fun_, 1866.


AN ILLUSTRATED EDITION OF THE POETS

[Illustration: “What’s ’A-cuba to him, or he to ’A-cuba?”

  --SHAKESPEARE.]

[Illustration: “Mark’d you her eye?”

  --SHERIDAN.]


[Illustration: “Alarms! Excursions! Parties fighting.”

  --SHAKESPEARE.]

[Illustration: “Methinks I scent the morning hair!”

  --SHAKESPEARE.]

[Illustration: “Parting is such sweet sorrow.”

  --SHAKESPEARE.]

[Illustration:

    “I waited for the train at Coventry,
    I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge.”

  --TENNYSON.]

[Illustration: “My custom always of an afternoon.”

  --SHAKESPEARE.]

[Illustration: “Say what can Chloe want? She wants a heart.”

  --POPE.]

[Illustration:

    “Oh! too convincing--dangerous dear--
    In woman’s eye, th’ unanswerable _tear_.”

  --BYRON.]


POETS AND THEIR PATRONS

[Illustration]


THE PAST.

Vast is the difference between the Poets’ Patron of the past and of the
present period. Formerly the noble was the encourager of the lofty
strains of inspiration, but nowadays Moses is the Mæcenas of the Muses.
In times gone by the bard was accustomed to write lays to laud the lazy
lordling, but now he sings pæans to the paletot, and invests the vest
with the graceful trimmings of fancy.

The poet has turned puffer instead of parasite. Should another Pope
arise, he would sing the praises of another Chesterfield; but instead of
being the Earl of that name, it would be the wrapper he would take for
the subject of his lucubrations. The following is a fair specimen of the
style of thing to which a new Pope would most probably devote his
poetical talents:--


THE PRESENT.

    How happy is the new Mosaic cut!
    When Moses opens, let the rest be shut.
    Look at the coat! so dashing, yet refined,
    In front perfection, and the same behind;
    Body and skirt their equal distance keep,
    The collar not too narrow, nor too deep;
    Grace shines about it with enchanting beams,
    And finest workmanship cements the seams.
    Taste lurks in every fold, and--Gracious Heaven!
    You get the article for two pound seven.
    Let others to the western Schneiders fly,
    With eastern elegance ’tis vain to vie.


[Illustration: MY

Manuscripts.

BY

PHYLLIS TYNE]


I.

    A certain dismal desk I own comprises
      A literary morgue, a place of tears,
    Where manuscripts of divers shapes and sizes
      Repose--defiled with dust and canine ears.
    They lie, awaiting ultimate cremation,
      My slighted bantlings--poor, ill-treated pets!
    Embodiments of blighted aspiration
      And bitter editorial regrets!


II.

    Which tale, which play, which poem is the poorest,
      Where all have often been condemned as poor,
    Which manuscript the most case-hardened tourist,
      Where all have been on many a fruitless tour,
    I cannot tell. Yet am I fain to wager
      That none have been the cause of so much ire
    As this--the stoutest, inkiest old stager,
      That, in my heart of hearts, I still admire!


III.

    The epics that, by some elusive magic,
      Were turned at last to musical burlesques,
    The comedies that daily grew more tragic
      (Foredoomed to moulder in sepulchral skies);
    The bright libretto, worthy of a Gilbert,
      That shrunk into one lyric, which describes
    What passed between the “Earwig and the Filbert”--
      These and their like I treasure up in tribes!

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]


IV.

    I have composed heroics and didactics,
      Completed thrilling dramas by the score,
    I have adopted mercenary tactics,
      And started lurid serials galore;
    But seldom could I pen them as I planned them;
      The plays developed strangely, scene by scene,
    Till I was forced, at length, to brand them
      As feeble skits on what they might have been!


V.

    I would not be a virulent detractor
      Of all the editors who say me nay,
    Of each successful manager and actor
      Who has declined (with thanks) my strongest play;
    They may be men of taste and erudition,
      But, if they understand (and do they not?)
    The kind of thing in public requisition,
      The public must require the baldest rot?

[Illustration]


VI.

    My manuscripts! before I burn or rend you
      (Momentarily penitent and sane),
    Methinks I will be rash enough to send you
      Upon a _final_ journey once again!
    Your mute entreaties give me heart to fight on,
      With fixed intent to find the “open door.”
    My only difficulty is to light on
      Some quarter where you have not been before!


VII.

    And what of these supremely dismal verses?
      They, too, shall be incontinently hurled--
    Like many of their colour--on the mercies
      Of this unkind and unpoetic world.
    I will submit them, with a curt epistle,
      To some sad editor’s regretful eye,
    Sanguine, of course, yet, posting them, I’ll whistle
      The strains of “Au revoir, but not good-bye!”

[Illustration]

[Illustration]


A MAN I HATE

    Of all the bores that, now and then,
        Society permits
    To talk to literary men,
        Or mix among the wits,
    The worst are those that _will_ devote
    Their little minds to anecdote.

    I’ve sat and listened, I confess,
        To fools of many kinds,
    Including people who possess
        Encyclopædic minds.
    But oh! the very worst afloat
    Is he who takes to anecdote.

    I like a man who makes a pun
        Or else a deep remark;
    I like philosophy or fun--
        If only just a spark.
    But how I hate the muffs who gloat
    Inanely over anecdote.

    I loathe a man who recollects
        A little thing he heard;
    Then tells a story and expects
        A grin at ev’ry word.
    For how can any one promote
    Your liveliness by anecdote?

    Oh, no! I’d rather live alone
        Upon a desert isle,
    With not a voice, except my own,
        To cheer me all the while,
    Than talk to men who learn by rote
    Their paltry funds of anecdote!

  _Fun_, 1866.



[Illustration: MAINLY ABOUT AUTHORS

WOULD-BE NOVELIST (_writes_). Even as he read the letter, De Brooke’s
face blanched. The dreaded blow had fallen! The estate would never be
his--and he must be content with a mere existence on a paltry nine
hundred a year.]


[Illustration: LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET]


A WHITCOMB RILEY STORY

  On the way to the office of his publishers one crisp autumn morning,
  Mr. James Whitcomb Riley, the celebrated “Hoosier” poet of America,
  who is almost as well known in England, met an unusually large number
  of acquaintances who commented conventionally upon the fine weather.
  This unremitting applause amused him. When greeted at the office with
  “Nice day, Mr. Riley,” he smiled broadly.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Yes, I’ve heard it very highly spoken of.”


MARK TWAIN AND THE KEY

  “Once when I was going out to visit some friends,” Mark Twain is
  alleged to have said, in relating this one of the innumerable “yarns”
  fathered on him, “I told George, my negro servant, to lock the house
  and put the key under a certain stone near the steps. He agreed to do
  so.

  “It was late at night when I returned. I went to the stone under which
  the key was supposed to have been hidden. It was gone. I hunted around
  the premises for about fifteen minutes, but still no key.

  “Finally I went to George’s house--he lived outside--and rapped,
  vigorously upon the door. A black head, which I had no difficulty in
  recognizing as George’s, popped out of an upstairs window.

  “‘Where did you put that key, you black rascal?’ I roared.

  “‘Oh, massa,’ answered George, ‘I found a better place for it.’”

[Illustration: DESCEND, YE NINE.]

[Illustration: PERFECT SINCERITY, OR, THINKINGS ALOUD.

GENIUS. By the way, did you glance over that article of mine on “The
Intellect of Woman, and her Social Position?” I don’t care twopence
about your opinion; only, if you can say something favourable, of course
I shall be pleased.

COMMON SENSE. Why, I tried to get through it, but upon my life, I found
it such contemptible rubbish, that I couldn’t get on; and, to tell you
the truth, I think that a snug little thing in the cheese-mongering line
would be more in your way than literature.

GENIUS. Ah, you must be a fool!]

[Illustration: HISTORY--THE ANCIENT BRITONS.

EMILY (_reads_). In the summer they were naked, and instead of clothes
they put paint upon their bodies. They were fond of a fine blue colour,
which they made of a plant called woad, which they found in their woods.
They squeezed out the juice of the woad, and then stained themselves all
over with it, so that in summer they looked as if they were dressed in
tight blue clothes.

ARTHUR. And did they walk in the park and go to church so?]

[Illustration: A RURAL STUDY.

BURLESQUE-WRITER FORCING PUNS.]

[Illustration: GENIUS. Ha! I may be unrecognized, my dear, but I’ll have
my revenge on posterity. When the great cypher work is dug out of the
Thames it will show that everything Meredith, Hardy, Kipling and Marie
Corelli ever wrote was _mine_--_mine!_]


HUMOURS OF THE PRINTING-HOUSE

  The printing-house is notoriously the place for fun. Every shop has
  its selection of funny men who are ever ready to co-operate with the
  “devils” in manufacturing mirth. And there are always the “fossils,”
  who afford many an opportunity for a hearty laugh at them, if not with
  them. Often have I been amused with, the idiosyncrasies of these
  typographical gray beards; their chief charm being their colossal
  assurance as to their invariably being right, and everybody else, who
  presumes to differ from them, wrong. I recollect one of these ancient
  typesetters (an old Scotsman) who used to be the butt of countless
  jokes in the shop where he toiled so patiently. On one occasion he set
  up an article from my pen, beginning, “Long before the introduction of
  Pears’ Soap”; and I am bothered if he didn’t turn the last two words
  into “Pea Soup!” But the real fun of the matter was, that on his
  mistake being pointed out, he blandly suggested our letting the words
  appear as he had set them--“it wid dae jist as weel!”

  The printer does not seem to be deeply concerned about his future,
  indeed, he has many a gay dig at that grave subject; as, for
  instance--

    Old Lucifer, both kind and civil.
    To every printer lends a devil;
    But, balancing accounts each winter,
    For every devil takes a printer.

[Illustration: AUTHOR’S MISERIES.

Having corresponded with Miss Rudge, the gifted poetess (authoress of
“Floranthe,” “The Lovelock of Montrose,” “Moans of the Heartstrings,”
etc.), and exchanged portraits and your own poems with her, you meet at
last.

You are disappointed in her appearance and find her about forty years
older than her picture; perhaps you, too, have grown rather fat and
seedy since yours was taken twenty years ago.]

  The printer’s “devil,” by the way, is a queer fish, and there is a
  story about a certain metropolitan imp that fits any of the little
  sinners to a T. This particular youngster had just received his week’s
  wages, eleven shillings, when he was heard to soliloquize in these
  terms--“Let me see. I’ll go the Coliseum to-night, that’s a shilling;
  supper with bottled beer, that’s eighteenpence; ’baccy for the week, a
  shilling; beer ditto, two shillings; theatre one night next week,
  that’s one-and-six, and supper, one-and-six; and I’ll buy that swell
  walking stick, and that’ll just leave sixpence to take home to mother
  towards my week’s board.” He must have been a regular bad ’un, that.

  Another favourite medium of printing-house fun is found in adapting
  Gilbert’s famous line and mourning that a “printer’s lot is not a
  happy one,” or magnifying the annoyances from authors and editors with
  which printers have to put up. In this connexion we find one printer
  relieving his troubled soul thus--

  Working for forty editors and scores of authors, every one of whom is
  as sensitive as a sore thumb, and as lively and interesting as a
  hornet, no wonder that printers die young, and only pachydermatus,
  grizzly, mulish specimens get their share of life. The writer wishes
  he could offer himself as an awful example of the perils which environ
  a man who meddles with cold type. A thoroughly trained printer should
  have had a stepmother, and then a stepfather, and then have been bound
  out to a tanner, and then have married a scolding wife, and lived in a
  smoky house, and have had a family of babies who were afflicted with
  colic. He should have added to all this discipline a thorough
  knowledge of science, art, law, language, theology, history and
  biography. If, in addition, he has a vicious looking countenance and
  an amiable disposition, he may stand some chance with these authors
  and editors ; but the probabilities are, after all, that they will
  worry him to death.

[Illustration: AUTHORS’ MISERIES.

As you are labouring on your great work (in a style, let us add, equal
to the subject), Lady Anna Maria Tomnoddy’s compliments arrive, and she
requests you will cast your eye over the accompanying manuscript in six
volumes, “The Mysteries of Mayfair,” correct the errors, if any, and
find a publisher for the same.

N.B.--You have in your bookcase Captain Bangle’s “Buffaloes and Banyan
Trees,” in MS.; the Rev. Mr. Growl’s “Sermons to a Congregation at
Swansea,” ditto ditto; Miss Piminy’s “Wildflower Coronal, a Wreath of
Village Poesy”; and Mr. Clapperton’s six manuscript tragedies; of all of
which you are requested to give your opinion.]

  Then there is a certain freedom about printers’ humour which we don’t
  find elsewhere, save among editors: but printers, like editors, have
  ever been privileged individuals, and we are told that when the
  recording angel observes a printer hold a bit of bent brass rule
  between his fingers, while he misses it with a hammer, the trustworthy
  scribe drops into a brown study, and pretends not to hear anything.
  Nor is it logical to assume that a printer is a saint because he sets
  up a hymn-book. You might as well regard an editor as a fool because
  you didn’t exactly agree with what was in his paper.

[Illustration: AUTHORS’ MISERIES.

Perhaps you flatter yourself that you have made an impression on Miss
Flannigan (at Worthing), and you find her asleep over your favourite
book.]

  Illustrative of this there is an excellent anecdote told by the late
  Max O’Rell in his book, _A Frenchman in America_.

  A former proprietor of the _New York Times and Post_ was wont every
  morning to select a text from the Bible to be printed above the
  leader. One morning, by some mischance, the text got lost, and Max
  tells us that the comps might have been heard asking in pretty loud
  stage whispers, “If anybody knew where that d---- text was?”

  Perhaps the wit of the compositor is most amusing when it appeals to
  the eye. That is, when he gives rein to his fancy, and uses his types
  for suggesting witty ideas. Here is a very happy illustration of this
  kind of fun--

  “T_T_h_h_e_e_ c_c_o_o_m_m_p_p_o_o_s_s_i_i_t_t_o_o_r_r_ w_w_h_h_o_o_
  s_s_e_e_t_t_ t_t_h_h_i_i_s_s_ p_p_a_a_r_r_. h_h_a_a_s_s_ h_h_a_a_d_d_
  e_e_x_x_a_a_c_c_t_t_l_l_y_y_ a_a_ g_g_l_l_a_a_s_s_s_s_ a_a_n_n_d_d_
  a_a_ h_h_a_a_l_l_f_f_ t_t_o_o_o_o_ m_m_u_u_c_c_h_h_ a_a_n_n_d_d_
  t_t_h_h_i_i_s_s_ i_i_s_s_ p_p_r_r_e_e_c_c_i_i_s_s_e_e_l_l_y_y_
  w_w_h_h_a_a_t_t_ h_h_e_e_ f_f_e_e_e_e_l_l_s_s_ l_l_i_i_k_k_e_e._”

  Yes, that compositor may only have had “a glass and a-half too much,”
  but the typo who is supposed to have set up the appended advertisement
  has manifestly indulged to even a greater extent--

  £ DOGSH LOSHT!
  Reward Five Shtrayed or Shtolen,
  BANDY COLOURED LIVER LEGGED DOG
  Had on Collar Marked “Rover,”
  Answers to name of C.B., Esq.
  Whoever bringsh 5£ receive dogsh reward. No
  furtherdogsh will be offered.

[Illustration: AUTHORS’ MISERIES.

As you are conducting Lady Gotobed to her carriage from Lady Highjink’s
“noble party,” and fancying yourself a man of fashion, you hear the
servants in the hall saying one to another, “that’s him--that’s
Poonch!”]

  American printers are much given to these diverting devices, and in
  the following instance we have a number of papers vieing with one
  another in extracting fun from the technical terms for the various
  signs and punctuations--

  “If brevity is the soul of wit, how is this for a funny ¶?--‘Wheeling
  Journal.’ It is without a ‖.--‘New York Enterprise.’ Did you expect
  anybody to “ ” that?--‘Philadelphia Sunday Mirror.’ Those are the
  worst jokes of the .--‘Washington Critic.’ My * * *, you’re pointed as
  a †, aren’t you?--‘Burlington Enterprise.’ We ⏞ the opportunity to say
  these are ,cal???you fellows pro£.--‘Gold.’ Well, they afford a $ous
  sort of amusement at best and ---- our spirits greatly.--‘New York
  “L.” R. Journal.’”

  Here is another of the same, as they say about the Psalms of David--

  “A company of printers from Constantinople have joined the Turkish
  army. They ought to be good at a — at the enemy in the :ized region of
  Bulgaria. It is surprising that they should be so foolish * their
  lives where shot and shell may put an untimely . to their existence.
  Let them ⏞ the first opportunity 2 , way from that § where the
  murderous work of †† is un‖ed, and may the ☞ of Providence guide them
  to a latitude where they may live with a greater ° of safety.”

[Illustration:

   _______
  {       }
  { @ | @ }
  {   ^   }
   ( \_/ )
    ( - )

The man who likes a joke.]

[Illustration:

   _______
  {       }
  { @ | @ }
  {   ^   }
   ( /⏠\ )
    ( - )

The man who doesn’t.]

  The printer can also make fun with a few brackets and other
  typographical oddments, as shown above.

[Illustration: AUTHORS’ MISERIES.

_Old Gentleman._ _Miss Wiggets._ _Two Authors._

OLD GENTLEMAN. I am sorry to see you occupied, my dear Miss Wiggets,
with that trivial paper _Punch_. A railway is not a place, in my
opinion, for jokes. I never joke--never.

MISS W. So I should think, sir.

OLD GENTLEMAN. And besides, are you aware who are the conductors of that
paper, and that they are Chartists, Deists, Atheists, Anarchists, and
Socialists, to a man? I have it from the best authority, that they meet
together once a week in a tavern in Saint Giles’s, where they concoct
their infamous print. The chief part of their income is derived from
threatening letters which they send to the nobility and gentry. The
principal writer is a returned convict. Two have been tried at the Old
Bailey; and their artist--as for their artist....

GUARD. Swin-dun! Sta-tion!

  [_Exeunt two Authors._]

  In taking leave of this very entertaining subject one cannot do better
  than quote a printer’s “little joke,” which is at once
  mirth-provoking, and eminently suited as a “tail-piece” for this
  paper--

    “Full many a man, who now doth cheat the printer,
      Will waste his voice upon the heated air,
    And vainly sigh for cooling breeze of winter
      When he is punished for his sins down there.”

☟ ☟ ☟ ☟ ☟ ☟

[Illustration: AUTHORS’ MISERIES.

The printer’s boy is sitting in the hall; the editor has written to say
that your last contributions are not up to the mark, and that you must
be more funny, if you please. Mr. Snip, the tailor, has called again
that morning; you have a splitting headache, from a transaction
over-night, and as you are writing an exceedingly light and humorous
article, your dear Anna-Maria wishes to know how you _dare_ dine at
Greenwich, and with whom you dined?

I suppose she found the bill in your coat-pocket. How changed Anna-Maria
is from what she was when you married her! and how uncommonly
ill-tempered she has grown!

_Mr. Tims and a Good-natured Friend._

G.-N. F. Have you read the _Macadamiser_, Tims?

T. Hem! no. _Do_ people read the _Macadamiser_?

G.-N. F. He, he! I say, Tims, there’s a most unjustifiable attack upon
you in it. Look here. (_He kindly takes out the “Macadamiser.”_)

T. (_reads_). “This person is before us again. He is ignorant, vulgar,
and a Cockney. He is one of that most contemptible race of men, a
professional buffoon. He is,” etc., etc. (_Tims reads ad libitum._)
Thank you, my dear fellow; it was uncommonly good-natured of you to
bring the critique.]

[Illustration]


HARRIS-ING REFLECTIONS

_Written after a Visit to the Olympic._

    O Sairey Gamp! oh, Sairey Gamp! Of honest people of your stamp,
        ma’am,
    To find a score or even more--the Cynic would not need his lamp,
        ma’am!
    For far and wide on ev’ry side there quite as many, I’m afraid, are
    As on each hedge, so folks allege, the plenteous blackberries
        displayed are.
    Just gaze around--what lots are found, of “honest men” (in common
        diction)
    Whose honour, sense, or wealth immense has no existence but in
        fiction.
    Oh, there be few who never knew the great promoters and projectors
    Who when they blow a bubble “Co.” obtain from fancy their directors.
    And there’s a host of men that boast how many lords as friends they
        gaze on,
    Whose arms no work compiled by Burke was ever called upon to blazon.
    How many too from far Peru to China quote their travels daring,
    And still, I ween, have never been ten miles beyond the Cross of
        Charing!
    Why scores, I know, the world’s Great Show declare they saw last
        year at Paris,
    Yet saw no more the Gallic shore than you set eyes on Mrs. Harris!

    In piteous tones will Mrs. Jones of “better days” and “losses”
        gibber,
    Yet has she ne’er, as I can swear, had anything to lose--the fibber!
    There’s Figgs will plead for cash--his need to meet a bill of large
        amount is--
    But that same bill, assert I will, drawn on imagination’s fount is!
    Just ask your friend Tom Browne to lend you twenty pounds--or make
        it fifty;
    He blames his fate, “you’re just too late--in fact he must himself
        be thrifty,
    Confound! and dash! last week all cash available in funds invested!”
    Those funds, I guess, would nothing less than fancy stocks turn out
        if tested.
    There’s Major Jaw who service saw the great Peninsular campaign in--
    Yet ne’er was there! His martial air was built some French
        _château_-in-Spain in?
    There’s Bragg whose name all lists proclaim, which tell the world
        how many guineas
    A B and C, with D and E, subscribe when sought a lot of tin is
    To whitewash blacks, or scatter “tracks”--for Charity! Yet gentle
        Charis
    I fear you’ll find for men so blind no more exists than Mrs. Harris!

[Illustration]

    Oh, Sairey Gamp, oh Sairey Gamp! This world “a wale,” oh Sairey
        Gamp, is!
    And now and then the best of men (like Pecksniff) but a sorry scamp
        is.
    I’ve, on my word, a sermon heard so clever I should like to quote
        it--

    Denouncing shams, and bams, and crams--yet he who preached it never
        wrote it!
    I feel remorse that fine discourse to fix a qualifying term on
    But am compelled to own I held it Mrs. H.’s funeral sermon.
    I’ve known also, a medico experiment where sickness floored him,
    And try to kill his patient till kind nature stepping in restored
        him!
    Well, thereupon our doctor shone with conscious skill and
        self-laudation,
    As if he’d not his wisdom got from Mrs. H.--in consultation!
    And eke in Law you’ll find the flaw Divinity and Physic suffer,
    Some juniors drag a heavy bag, but every paper there’s a duffer.
    Mere empty show--it’s wrong you know--a swindle! And yet many a
        barris-
    Ter’s earliest brief, I own with grief, has been “the case of Mrs.
        Harris.”

  _Fun_, 1868.

[Illustration: “Is this a libery?”

“Yes.”

“Then let me have the last number of _Hemily Fitz-Hosborn_.”]



[Illustration: THE EDITOR IN HIS DEN

THE EDITOR AT HOME.

MARY. Please, sir, I’ve been looking everywhere for the third volume of
that book you was reading.

LODGER. Oh, I took it back to the library this morning. I----

MARY. Oh! then will you tell me, sir, if as how the “Markis” found out
as she’d pisoned ’er two fust ’usbands?]


HUMOURS OF ADVERTISING

  America is the fatherland of Modern Advertising, and Cousin Jonathan’s
  inherent taste for fun and unconventionality has led him to adopt
  striking and often humorous methods of appeal. Thus the Washington
  hotel-keeper who issued a glowing announcement of the attractions of
  his establishment would certainly lose nothing when he humorously
  added to his advertisement in a Chicago paper: “Clergymen find this
  the best place for rest, as book agents cannot climb the hill.”

  An enterprising Yankee who runs a hotel at Minnetonka, rejoicing in
  the somewhat ominous name of _Mosquitos Rest_, sends forth an
  announcement remarkable for the manner in which it mixes the sublime
  with the commonplace. Here is a literal extract--

  Delightful scenery. Clam bakes and ox tail soup every morning for
  breakfast. No cyclones allowed to register. Dogs, children, and other
  pets not allowed on the grass. Rates range from 3 dols. per day to 21
  dols. per week. Excursions to Pike’s Peak every afternoon. Newspaper
  publishers can all pay their board by promising to give us a write-up
  when they get home. All kinds of baths on draft.

  Perhaps the most amusing descent from the sublime is to be found in
  the advertisement of the proprietor of a building site in Wisconsin,
  who offered his land for sale in these terms--

  The town of Poggis and surrounding country is the most beautiful which
  nature ever made. The scenery is celestial--divine; also two waggons
  to sell, and a yoke of steers.

  A Pennsylvania clergyman who was evidently a bit of a humorist, and
  was anxious to earn an honest penny outside of his own slender salary,
  once advertised thus--

  Cupid and Hymen. The little brown cottage at Cambridge, Pa., is the
  place to call and have the marriage knot promptly and strongly tied.
  Inquire of Rev. S. S. Whitcomb.

  What benedict could resist an invitation so gracefully given?

[Illustration: ROMANCE OF ADVERTISING.

“I wish, mister, you’d be so good as to stop the Press and put this in a
good place (_reads_): ’Hemily. Don’t delay, but return to yer
broken-arted Adolphus, or there’s no knowing what may be the
consequence!!!’”]

  It would be difficult to surpass the grim humour of the Pine Tree
  State gravestone cutter who notified the public as follows--“Such as
  buy tombstones of us look with pride and satisfaction upon the graves
  of their friends.” The announcement of an Illinois undertaker,
  however, runs it pretty close. Here it is--“An elegant stock of neat
  and nobby shrouds, warranted to give satisfaction to the most
  particular.”

  The column in American papers devoted to “Wants” frequently affords
  its readers some amusement, either through the eccentricity of the
  advertiser or on account of some printer’s error. To the former cause,
  we have to ascribe the appended notice from a Kansas paper--

  Wanted an old man of cranky disposition, who will stand no
  bull-dozing, to work from 3 to 7 p.m.; good salary and light work.
  Address “Crank.”

  Let’s hope this plain-spoken advertiser met with the desirable
  un-bull-dozable individual he wanted, and that the firm who inserted
  the following in a southern paper were likewise successful in their
  quest for a young man of the same kidney--

[Illustration: ARTIST POET. Yes, I consider that to be one of my most
brilliant effects. It is entitled “Pirates surprised at sunset.”

EDITOR. Great Scott! Poor fellows, I don’t wonder they were surprised at
it!]

  We desire an able-bodied, hard-featured, bad-tempered,
  not-to-be-put-off and not-to-be-backed-down young man, to collect for
  us; must furnish his own horse, saddle-bags, pistols, bowie knife and
  cowhide. We will furnish the accounts. To such a person we promise
  constant and laborious employment.

As to humour arising from printers’ errors, a whole volume of such
amusing blunders might be collected, and the difficulty is to submit one
or two of the most mirth-provoking specimens. For instance, a Boston
clergyman asks for “a young man to take care of a span of horses of a
religious turn of mind,” while another person desires “a nurse in a
small gentleman’s family,” and a Texas man applies for a “Boss hand over
5,000 sheep that can speak Spanish fluently.” In our home papers, too,
there are many such mirthful mistakes. For example, a notice in a Welsh
paper would lead one to believe the advertiser had reached the height of
“general utility,” and might be used for sleeping in, for packing in,
for hammering about, or for storing goods in, and that he had been
accustomed to that for seventeen years! Look you now--

  Man seeks situation as bedstead, box, packing case, rough carpentry,
  or warehouse; 17 years’ character.

Apropos of American advertising, two amusing instances of unexpected
effects are worth recording. It was a Cincinnati firm who a few years
ago sent out a corps of artists who decorated all available dead walls
with the legend--

  +----------------------------+
  | USE DR. BROWN’S AGUE CURE. |
  +----------------------------+

A few weeks later another band of paint-brush wielders struck the trail
of Dr. Brown’s advertisers, and as the result the rural population was
thus advised--

  +----------------------------+
  | TAKE SMITH’S SARSAPARILLA, |
  |   AND YOU WON’T HAVE TO    |
  | USE DR. BROWN’S AGUE CURE. |
  +----------------------------+

[Illustration: FANCY PORTRAIT--

OLIVER TWIST.]

It was in Baltimore where the town was liberally supplied with
imperative commands to “Take Ayer’ Pills!” One of these notices was
inscribed on the rail of a board fence immediately underneath which some
zealous colporteur had appropriated a rail for the admonition, “Prepare
to meet your God!” A wag, taking advantage of the situation, connected
the two inscriptions with a conspicuous “_and_,” and thus left them.

The Jap, a slavish imitator of Western customs, has adopted the methods
of Western advertisement, although his knowledge of the English
language leaves something to be desired. The following is an extract
from an announcement of a certain teeth powder sweetly named
“Naniwakusurihamigaki,” which appeared in an Anglo-Japanese
periodical--“This Teeth Powder is not common thing, as be selled in the
world, it is powerful to hold the health of teeth, and recover the teeth
from its sick. If you only examine you should find that I never tell a
lie.”

[Illustration: A FACT!

_Little Quiller has a great idea of the dignity of literature as a
profession, as also of its professors generally--Quiller particularly.
He has submitted a large parcel of MS. to a publisher for approval, and
calls to ascertain the result._

PUBLISHER (_loq._). Hoh! Mr. Quiller? Yes, sir, I’ve not read your
stuff, but I’ll tell you what I’ll do; I’ll take it on spec, and toss
you--sudden death--ten bob or nothin’ for it!

  [_Poor little Quiller_]

  Indian native journals published in what is alleged to be English, but
  what is better described as “Baboo,” also afford many examples of the
  humours of advertising. Let us take one specimen which appeared in the
  original surmounted with the Royal Arms--

  I the undersigned obedient monk and Tomb’s slave of Khaja Mainudin
  Chishti emporor of India inhabitant of Ajmere most humbly beg to every
  one gentleman, that if anybody might be suffering with demon, fairy,
  magic and fury, from any long time, or any sort of patient, who cannot
  be cure by any sort of medical treatment, they should attend at Mote
  Bazar in Memon Kader Fakir Mohomed’s house No. 383 from 6 to 12 a.m.
  and 3 to 5 p.m. all the abovementioned patients will be cure by
  pronouncing some words and blowing upon water, spiting and amulet, by
  the grace of the Almighty Creator.

  If anybody is suffering with weakness and privacy in eyes, they will
  be cure by the medicine.

  If anybody wishes to take examination for the above mentioned
  questions, the undersigned can answer for his any question very easily
  and several times the undersigned was made contrast with great
  enchanter in Calcutta at Kalighat and in Malbar, but by the grace of
  God Kaja saket the undersigned has been successful upon them.

  Some days ago the undersigned was in Calcutta, and he cure there lots
  of patients by the grace of God, which was related by the Calcutta
  Newspapers, hoping several gentlemen might be known by reading the
  Calcutta newspapers, and the late Governor General Lord Ripon were
  very kind on the undersigned on account of above mentioned abilities,
  and many times I had been visited with them in Calcutta and Shamla,
  and surely nobody will return hopeless from the door of Khaja Mainudin
  Chishti emporor of India by the grace of God.

  The following notice appended for the benefit of local English
  residents to the announcement of a masked ball at Lorenço Marques,
  also deserves a place among these specimens of the Humours of
  Advertising--

  A great Mascared Ball!
  it will take place at Ultramarino Hotel in the 16th of instant
  all the mascareds must be in respectible conditions
  Mascareds witt religions or politic dresses are not allone
  The tikets can be obtaine at Messrs. Rodrigues & Cunha and alco
  in the same Evening at the Ultramarino Hotel
  Price of the tikets 4/6. Free for the mascared ladies.
  Let us go to the Ball.

[Illustration: Locke on the Human Understanding.]

  A glance at the business life of the far East shows us that out there
  Western customs are steadily gaining ground, although in that queer
  land of China nothing appears to be new, for long, long ago they
  advertised their shops with sign-boards inscribed after this
  fashion--“Shop of Heaven-sent Luck,” “The Shop of Celestial
  Principles,” “The Nine Felicities Prolonged,” “Mutton Shop of Morning
  Twilight,” “The Ten Virtues all Complete.” Here you have poetry and
  business combined, while in “The Honest Pen Shop of Li,” you have a
  guarantee that your pens will follow the best policy, although the
  shopman’s name is just a wee bit suspicious. John Chinaman shows his
  love of contrariness surely when he advertises a charcoal shop as the
  “Fountain of Beauty,” a coal depôt as “Heavenly Embroidery,” or an oil
  and wine establishment as the “Neighbourhood of Chief Beauty,” and we
  can easily imagine the fiendish chuckle with which the proprietor of
  an opium divan advertised his shop as “The Thrice Righteous.”


THE JOURNALISTIC INSTINCT.

  “I have just been having a chat with young Jones. Smart young chap, he
  seems, but very unlucky. He’s on the Press, I understand.”

  “Yes; he tries to squeeze a loan out of everybody he meets.”

[Illustration: Burton on Melancholy.]

[Illustration: Securing a friend in the Press.]

[Illustration: Jonathan Wild.]


APPROVED BY THE EDITOR

  Wishing to get from Chicago to Memphis, a young newspaper man
  purchased a “mileage” book from a “ticket scalper”--or illegal dealer
  in unfinished mileage tickets. The book had been the property of a
  reporter for the _Louisville Courier-Journal_, and the description in
  the cover was alarmingly different from his own. The sharp-eyed
  conductor immediately noticed this.

  “Are you on the _Courier-Journal_?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Oh, yes. I’ve been a reporter there for several years.”

  The conductor asked for some identification, which naturally the
  passenger was unable to give.

  “I have it,” said the conductor, suddenly remembering. “It just
  happens that Henry Watterson, Editor of the _Courier-Journal_, is on
  the Pullman ahead. If you’re all right he ought to be able to identify
  you.”

  At this the young man all but collapsed. However, there was nothing to
  it but to take a chance. When they found Henry Watterson the conductor
  handed out the mileage book, and, pointing to the young man, asked if
  he was a reporter on the _Courier-Journal_.

  “Yes, indeed,” was the quick reply. “He is one of our best men. How
  are you, Robert?”

  Breathing a prayer of thanks, the young man returned to his seat and
  resumed his journey without further trouble. Next morning, in the
  dining wagon, he saw his friend and timidly approached him.

  “Colonel Watterson,” he said fervently, “I can’t tell you how grateful
  I am for what you did for me yesterday. I----”

  “Tut, tut. Don’t mention it,” returned his benefactor. “You did every
  bit as much for me. I’m not Henry Watterson. I’m just travelling on
  his pass.”

  _Everybody’s Magazine_ (U.S.A.).


RULES FOR NEWSPAPER CORRESPONDENTS

  Supposing you wish to contribute to a public charity, send your money
  to the Editor of a newspaper. He must acknowledge the receipt of it,
  and so you get your name and benevolence advertised in the best part
  of the paper for nothing.

  2. Another good method, if you are fond of appearing before the
  public, is to request the Editor to state that “the Richard Jones who,
  in our police report of yesterday, was sentenced to Bridewell for
  shoplifting, is not the Mr. Richard Jones, the respected chiropædist
  of Sackville Street.”

  3. If you are writing to a political newspaper, never mind about
  writing on the two sides of the paper, as, depend upon it, it will be
  a recommendation in your favour if the Editor sees you can write well
  on _both sides_.

  4. You need not be particular about writing legibly, as it stands to
  reason, if the Editor cannot read your letter, that you will be spared
  the mortification of reading in the next day’s Notices to
  Correspondents, that “Philo-Justitiæ is an ass.”

  5. It is usual in sending a statement, which impugns the character of
  another person, to send your name and address with it; but, as in
  matters of libel this is a very troublesome as well as a very
  expensive plan, it is better to send anybody else’s card rather than
  your own. By this means you avoid publicity, and have the double
  gratification of annoying two persons at once.

  6. Inserting your death one day, and contradicting it the next, is
  another very cheap plan of advertising in a newspaper. Besides, you
  have the advantage of learning in your lifetime what your friends
  think of you after your death. This plan, however, will only answer
  once.

  7. It is better, perhaps, not to send any poetry to a newspaper. We
  never recollect an instance of the _Times_ inserting “A Sonnet to a
  Sow,” or “Lines to my Mary.”

  8. Be careful of quotations, especially in a foreign language. If an
  editor knows his own language well, it is as much as you have a right
  to expect of him.

  9. Never send anything to a newspaper “to be continued,” unless it is
  a legacy or a dozen of port.

  10. Never trouble yourself in calling to see the Editor of a
  newspaper. It is a strange circumstance, but you might call a hundred
  times and always find him “out.”

  _Punch_, 1844.

[Illustration: A NEW READING.

_Dedicated to the Publishers of Shilling Shakespeares._

  “And when the fit was on him, I did mark----”--_Julius Cæsar_, Act i.
  Sc. i.]


LITERARY FLUNKEYISM

We sink in our own estimation as we sit down to write; we blush
involuntarily, although we are in the deepest solitude; we look at our
arm, in dread lest we should find a napkin hanging on it, in true
waiterish attitude; we rush to the glass to ascertain whether our neck
is encompassed by the conventional little white tie; and we have to look
around us. No wonder! For just look here! Did audacity ever go so far?
Was impertinence ever so consummate?

  A gentleman, disengaged after six p.m., requires evening employment,
  in any capacity not menial. Good correspondent and accountant,
  draughtsman and composer. Would undertake London correspondence of a
  country paper, write critiques, etc. Terms moderate.--Address, W.,
  etc.

A “gentleman” who wants employment “in any capacity not _menial_,”
“would undertake London correspondence of a country paper, write
critiques,” etc. Obviously the advertiser considers literature something
a little above the work of a menial. We are, of course, obliged for this
admission. Nevertheless, we confess the above advertisement has given us
some doubts as to whether we shan’t find Jeames, with his fine leg, on
Grub-street pavement one of these days. We would advise “W.” to go to a
Dutchman, who advertises that he can supply “literary hacks”; the
literary livery stables are situated somewhere up in Bloomsbury; and, no
doubt, for a small sum he may be groomed down any time after six, and,
with the help of a farthing rushlight in a dark lantern, find his way up
Parnassus. We can tell him, however, that it would be advisable to avoid
the Temple of FUN, as individuals similarly constituted to himself have
before now been severely kicked, as a reward for their audacity, in that
neighbourhood.

  _Fun_, 1863.



[Illustration: STUDIES FROM THE STUDY

FIRST STUDENT. Just my luck! I wired to the governor to send me £5 for
some books.

SECOND STUDENT. He refused?

FIRST STUDENT. No, he’s sent the books.]

[Illustration: RETURNED--WITH THANKS.

“If you please, sir, master’s sent back the first volume, and he says,
will you be so good as to let him ’ave the second?”]


HUMOURS OF OUR LANGUAGE

(OR, MORE “POETS AT PLAY.”)

  The anomalies of English spelling and pronunciation have many a time
  served our humorous writers with capital material for their rhymes.
  The following is one of the cleverest of the kind referred to:--

    As a farmer was going to plough,
    He met a man driving a cough,
    They had words which led to a rough,
    And the farmer was struck on his brough.

    One day when the weather was rough,
    An old lady went out for some snough,
    Which she thoughtlessly placed in her mough,
    And it got scattered all over her cough.

    While a baker was kneading his dough,
    A weight fell down on his tough,
    When he suddenly exclaimed ough!
    Because it had hurt him sough.

    There was a hole in a hedge to get through,
    It was made by no one knew whough;
    In getting through a boy lost his shough,
    And was quite at a loss what to dough.

    A poor old man had a bad cough,
    To a doctor he straight went ough,
    The doctor did nothing but scough,
    And said ’twas all fancy, his cough.

[Illustration: A QUEER CUT.

Well! Perhaps Messrs. Quarto, Canto, and Sons, the well known
publishers, have some right to complain of the artist who sent in this
as one of the illustrations for their forthcoming edition of _Byron_.
The artist says it illustrates the line:

“Whacks to receive, and marble to retain.”

  _Beppo_, stanza xxxiv.]

  Alliteration has long been a favourite target for the arrows of wits,
  though most of them are forced to acknowledge its “artful aid.” It
  requires a very considerable command of the English language, however,
  before a rhymester can concoct five quatrains in which every word
  commences with the same letter. This is the diverting composition
  here referred to; it is supposed to be a serenade sung by Major
  Marmaduke Muttonhead to Mademoiselle Madeline Mendoza Marriott--

    My Madeline! My Madeline!
      Mark my melodious midnight moans,
    Much may my melting music mean,
      My modulated monotones.

    My mandoline’s mild minstrelsy,
      My mental music magazine,
    My mouth, my mind, my memory,
      Must mingling murmur “Madeline.”

    Mankind’s malevolence may make
      Much melancholy music mine;
    Many my motives may mistake,
      My modest meritings malign.

    Match-making mothers machinate,
      Manœuvring misses me misween;
    Mere money may make many mate,
      My magic motto’s “Madeline.”

    Melt most mellifluous melody
      ’Midst Murcia’s misty mounts marine,
    Meet me by moonlight--marry me,
      Madonna mia--Madeline.

[Illustration: THE PURSUIT OF LETTERS.]

[Illustration: THE GRAND MARCH OF INTELLECT.]

[Illustration: LIBRARIAN. You asked to see the catalogue of the letter
P, sir? I’m sorry it’s not yet completed, sir, but I’ve brought you all
there is, as far as it goes.

Depend upon it, the Catalogue of the British Museum is not a work for
one time, but for all ages!]

  The following is another and more varied example of alliteration
  wilfully overdone--

                  With a splitter, splatter, splutter
                  And a gurgling in the gutter.
    And a tinkle, tankle, tunkle on the shingle and the pane.
                  With a misty, murky mizziness,
                  Settling down to steady business,
    Comes the dreary, drowsy, drooling of the dripping, dropping rain.

                  With a sizzle, sozzle, suzzle,
                  Buttoned upward to the muzzle,
    The weary waiting walker drags his rubbers from the mud:
                  While the dizzy, dodging, dancing,
                  Of the umber-ella prancing,
    Drives a man to lurid longings for some other fellow’s blood.

                  Oh, the breezy brooks may babble.
                  And the gentle poet dabble
    In his veering vernal verses and fond memories they bring;
                  But no earthly rhyme or reason
                  Makes believe in such a season
    That this wishy-washy weather is a cloudy ghost of spring.

[Illustration: THE AGE OF INTELLECT.]

  These specimens may not be the best that can be quoted; I do not
  suppose they are, and should indeed be audacious were I to submit them
  as such. Addison’s assertion as to false wit will, no doubt, stand as
  firm as ever in the minds of most people after reading these notes on
  “The Poets at Play.” All that has been here attempted, and thus much
  perhaps the indulgent reader will grant, has been to show that there
  may be found in what the famous essayist would have us condemn as
  unworthy many characteristics of wit, humour, and ingenuity; and not
  only these, but examples of the patience and painstaking which are
  near allied to “genius.”

[Illustration: SUBJECT FOR A PICTURE--IRRITABLE GENTLEMAN DISTURBED BY A
BLUEBOTTLE.]


MORE HUMOURS OF ADVERTISING

  Perhaps the Americans are ahead of us in advertising; but there is no
  little enterprise and good humour displayed in that business on this
  side the Atlantic. In the street of a northern town one day, the
  writer was presented with a handbill which will bear comparison with
  many such transatlantic compositions. It was issued by a tea merchant,
  whom we will refer to as “Smith.” In great black letters was the
  heading, “Ananias Redivivus,” then came the pointed queries, “Had
  Ananias any descendants? If so, what became of them? Did they emigrate
  to Scotland?” From the contents of the bill I take the following,
  which, I should state, was “displayed” in a most effective manner--

  The judge says the resetter is as bad as the thief.

  Smith says the foolish buyer is as bad as the lying advertiser.

  The judge says, no resetters, fewer thieves.

  Smith says, no foolish buyers, no lying advertisers.

  Why? Because, if there were no fools, it wouldn’t pay.

  Thus the resetter is only responsible for some of the thieves; but the
  stupid, foolish buyer is entirely responsible for all the lying
  advertisers; and by dealing with them becomes a participator with them
  in their wickedness, which brought such disastrous consequences upon
  Ananias.

  But the way to know them is this--Use all the common-sense you have
  been blessed with, and when you read such an advertisement as--“Best
  tea the world produces, 1_s._ 7_d._ per lb.,” if you don’t say the
  advertiser is a common, bare-faced perverter of the truth, a lineal
  descendant of Ananias, one with whom poor old Ananias would not have
  had the ghost of a chance for boldness and audacity, then you have
  been blessed with very little.

  But did it pay Ananias? Will it pay his descendants?

  Here is a text for our popular preachers. I have actually heard
  well-dressed, intelligent-looking people praise such men as clever; as
  if it were clever to tell a lie, a game at which the biggest rogue can
  beat the best gentleman.

  Lately the Chinese objected to the government planting a certain kind
  of tree in their streets. When asked the reason, they said it would
  spoil their business, as it was one of their holy trees, and they
  could not tell a lie under its shade.

[Illustration: AN AWFUL APPARITION!

MRS. T. (_to T., who has been reading the popular novel_). Pray, Mr.
Tomkins, are you never coming upstairs?

How much longer are you going to sit up with that _Woman in White_?]

  A few trees of this sort wanted in the streets of Glasgow.

  Now, although not under the shade of a holy tree, I speak the truth
  when I most emphatically declare that my tea at 1_s._ 6_d._ per lb. is
  better than that sold as the “best tea the world produces, 1_s._ 7_d._
  per lb.”

  We have in the foregoing an instance of a disciple of the good George
  Washington airing his Biblical knowledge, and in the same way we find
  a Birmingham bootmaker parading his acquaintance with the divine
  Shakespeare thus wise--

  “I pray you, sir, walk in.”--_Merry Wives of Windsor, ii. 5._

  “And I will boot thee.”--_Ant. and Cleo., i. 1._

  “We lay our service freely at your feet.”--_Hamlet, ii. 2._

  Why does not some cobbler making use of the bard’s writings thus--“All
  that I live by is with the awl. I meddle with no tradesman’s matters
  nor women’s matters but with awl. I am, indeed, sir, surgeon to old
  shoes; when they are in great danger I recover them.” [Trade journals
  please copy.]

  These shoemakers would appear to be quite a literary lot, for in a
  certain east coast town of Scotland an enterprising member of the
  craft enlisted the tuneful muses to extol his trade--or, mayhap, it
  was some relative of the poet “Slum” who rolled his eye in a fine
  frenzy, and produced these exquisite lines--

    Gae bring my auld topcoat, guidwife,
      Gae bring it unco fast,
    For I maun gang to Marshall’s shop
      Afore the nicht be past;
    My feet are damp, my boots are dune,
      An’ sae I canna rest
    Till I’m awa’ to Marshall’s shop,
      For Marshall’s boots are best.

  The English papers, like their American contemporaries, are rich in
  amusing advertisements of the “wants” class. Here is one that appeared
  in a newspaper published in a university town, which probably
  accounted for the “scholarly” tone of the notice--

  MISSING.--A black spaniel dog named “Blen,” whose owner’s address
  is---- It is asserted by some that Honesty is the Best Policy, and
  that Virtue is its own Reward. If the present possessor of the dog
  supports this view, his course is clear. In any case, no greater
  reward will be offered.

[Illustration: HOW NO. 4 ENJOYED HIMSELF.

HOW NO. 7 SUFFERED IN CONSEQUENCE.

THE MUSICAL NEIGHBOUR.]

[Illustration: GENTLEMAN, WISHING TO REFER TO THE CATALOGUE OF THE
BRITISH MUSEUM, IS SHOWN A VERY SMALL PORTION OF THAT WORK.]

[Illustration: PROFESSOR. Of course you will be prepared with your
analytical papers?

UNDERGRADUATE. Anna Lettical? I don’t know her, sir; but I know a
capital song about Annie Laurie, if you’d like to hear that!]

  The gentleman who inserted the following in a London daily, and
  desired replies to be sent to “Disgusted,” had apparently experienced
  the joys of life in lodgings--

  REQUIRED, in the West End, for a permanency, sitting and two large
  bedrooms, nicely furnished. Do not reply if related to the nobility,
  unaccustomed to receive, or animated by any other reason than a desire
  to secure the amount paid for apartments, etc. Marketing done
  personally. Careless or unskilled preparation, waste, or mysterious
  disappearance of the things provided not tolerated. So-called musical
  evenings, cheerful family, tennis lawns, imitation gardens, select
  society, etc., regarded with indifference. Hypocrisy and snobbishness
  disliked. Preferred and insisted upon instead--good cooking, prompt
  attendance, scrupulous neatness, and a plentiful supply of clean house
  linen. A written agreement to be made and mutually complied with.
  State inclusive terms and full particulars. N.B.--Inclusive terms
  means “no extras.”

  A London weekly once gave insertion to the appended notice, evidently
  the work of a wag, and intended as a skit upon a rather romantic
  episode which transpired about the time, when a lady played kidnapper,
  and a member of the sterner sex figured as the kidnapped--

  MATRIMONY.--Wanted, a rich American or English lady to kidnap
  advertiser, who is of fine physique and well developed, in fact, a
  Samson, who would not mind a trip with comfortable quarters on board a
  yacht during the honeymoon, especially if the lady is amiable.
  Genuine.

  This recalls an advertisement from an otherwise-minded young man. It
  appeared in an American paper--

  A YOUNG gentleman on the point of getting married is desirous of
  meeting a man of experience who will dissuade him from such a step.

  Probably some one referred this cautious youth to _Punch_, of a
  certain date, where the proper advice was given.

[Illustration]


HE NEVER CALLED AGAIN.

_Ballad for Music._

    I met him in the festive scene,
      Where hearts and eyes were bright;
    I met him--ah, we ne’er had been
      Acquainted till that night.

    I met him once again: ’twas where
      The warbling queens of song
    With liquid music filled the air,
      And hushed the listening throng.

    Next day he came to make a call
      I’d lodgings then at Brown’s--
    He stayed an hour, that was not all,
      He borrowed two half-crowns.

    This world is but a wilderness,
      Of grief and tears and pain--
    I travel onward--but you’ll guess,
      He never called again.

  _Fun_, 1866.

[Illustration: MISS FRUMP (_author of the “Ghoul-haunted Grange,” etc.,
etc., etc._). Can your little boy read?

MAMMA (_modestly_). Not very well, as yet.

LITTLE BOY (_pertly_). I can read better than _you_, mamma.

MAMMA. What _do_ you mean, child?

LITTLE BOY. Why, _you_ said you couldn’t read Miss Frump’s new book!

  [_Awkward silence._]


A DANGEROUS WRITER

    Young Jonathan’s a pet of mine
      For poetry and prose;
    I think his books are jolly fine
      (As literature goes).
    One Yankee, though, I _cannot_ read;
      He makes me shudder so.
    He’s very dangerous indeed,
      Is Edgar Allen Poe.

    I dearly love the simple style
      Of Irving at his best,
    And think that Hawthorne is a mile
      In height above the rest.
    I keep upon my shelves the works
      Of Wendell Holmes; but, oh!
    What fearful fascination lurks
      In Edgar Allen Poe.

    We learn from Henry Wadsworth L.
      That life is not a dream,
    In lines that read extremely well,
      But “are not what they seem.”
    I’ve studied Henry Wadsworth hard,
      From lots of years ago,
    And found in _him_ a safer bard
      Than Edgar Allen Poe.

    He draws you like a rattlesnake,
      Does Mr. E. A. P.,
    His tales have kept me wide awake
      Till two o’clock and three.
    Those stories have a deeper charm
      Than any ones I know--
    But, bless you! there’s a heap of harm
      In Edgar Allen Poe.

    His narrative about a cat
      Will make your blood run cold,
    So fearful a romance as that
      Has never yet been told.
    The Pit and Pendulum will send
      A thrill from top to toe.
    Pure horror seems the aim and end
      Of Edgar Allen Poe.

    I’ve dreamt of Ravens and of Bells--
      Of undiscovered crimes--
    Of haunted glens and ghostly dells,
      At least a dozen times.
    And often on a winter night,
      My courage ran so low
    I dare not sleep without a light--
      Through Edgar Allen Poe.

  _Fun_, 1867.


THE PHILOSOPHER’S REVENGE

A STORY WITHOUT WORDS

IN SIXTEEN CHAPTERS.

(_The right of translation is reserved._)

[Illustration: CHAPTER I.]

[Illustration: CHAPTER II.]

[Illustration: CHAPTER III.]

[Illustration: CHAPTER IV.]

[Illustration: CHAPTER V.]

[Illustration: CHAPTER VI.]

[Illustration: CHAPTER VII.]

[Illustration: CHAPTER VIII.]

[Illustration: CHAPTER IX.]

[Illustration: CHAPTER X.]

[Illustration: CHAPTER XI.]

[Illustration: CHAPTER XII.]

[Illustration: CHAPTER XIII.]

[Illustration: CHAPTER XIV.]

[Illustration: CHAPTER XV.]

[Illustration: CHAPTER XVI. (THE END.)]



[Illustration: FUN IN THE STUDIO

IRISH MODEL. Would ye moind telling me, sorr, who was the greatest
arrrtist iver been--av course, prisent company always excepted!]


[Illustration: ARTIST (_to country model_). You’d better “rest” a bit.
Sitting still seems very tiring to you.

MODEL (_mindful of instructions of local photographer’s_). It ain’t the
sitting still, mister. It’s the ’olding me breath!]

       *       *       *       *       *

According to a most unlikely story, the late Phil May was once on his
uppers in a small town in Australia. To stave off starvation he sought
and found employment as a waiter in a fourth-class eating house. One day
a man who had known the artist in London dropped in and took a seat at
one of the tables. When May went to take his order mutual recognition
followed.

“Phil May!” the visitor exclaimed. “And compelled to work in a hole like
this!”

“Yes,” retorted the artist indignantly. “I’ve sunk pretty low, but I
haven’t yet got so far down that I have to eat here.”

[Illustration: WHOLESALE!

PATRON (_yawning_). Augh, well, these sort of things are all much the
same to me. I’ll take a lot by weight--mounts and all. How much a pound
for this lot?]

[Illustration: “QUALIFICATIONS.”

PAINTER (_who has always been ambitious of “writing himself down an
R.A.”_). Think they might have elected me, having exhibited and had my
name down all these years! I might have----

FRIEND (_man o’ the world_). My dear fellow, I’ve always told you, you
don’t go the right way to work. You see they _could_ only elect you for
your painting, for--why do you wear such thick boots?!!]

[Illustration: BEHIND THE SCENES.

ARTIST. Hullo, Jakes! How’s this? I’ve been trying to do without you--I
thought you said you couldn’t come this morning?

MODEL. So I did, sir! I was engaged to Mr. Macmough, to sit for the legs
in the Dook of Hipswich’s portrait.

ARTIST. Well?

MODEL. Well, sir, whiles I were a-sitt’n, the Dook he come in quite
hunexpected like; an’ when he see me, he says he’d a deal sooner sit for
his legs hisself. So _I_ come on straight here!]

[Illustration: “ASKING FOR IT.”

FEROCIOUS DEALER. Now, if any man will tell me that that’s a copy,
I’ll--I’ll knock him down!--What’s your candid opinion?]

[Illustration: THE COMMERCIAL SIDE.

PAINTER. You don’t mean to say you want me to sign it, when I tell you I
did not paint it? And a beastly copy it is, too!

PICTURE-DEALER. Vy not, goot sir? vy not? Tut! tut! tut! I only vish you
artis’s vos men of bis’ness!]

[Illustration: GADDY’S ACADEMY PICTURE ON VIEW.

ART CRITIC. You see you’ve got the duke seated and the duchess standing
up. Now couldn’t you make the duchess sitting down and the duke standing
up?

[_But Gaddy fears the council will not put off the exhibition for a
couple of months to enable him to take advantage of his friend’s
valuable suggestion._]

[Illustration: “FLATTERING.”

COOK. Laukadaisy me, Miss Mary, if it ain’t a’most like wax-work, I dew
declare!]

[Illustration: PROFESSION AND PRACTICE.

PAINTER. Wouldn’t care to be a painter, eh?

MODEL. Dear, no, sir! Rather be a doctor--their work ain’t so
criticised, and it don’t much matter whether it’s kill or cure.]

[Illustration: RAPID GENIUS. ’Ow do I manage it? Why, fust of all I
takes the brown and does all the cats and the rinds of the cheeses--then
I takes the yaller and goes over the cheeses, and puts in eyes and
stripes to the cats. With a brush o’ black I puts in the bottles and the
mice; finishes up with a dab o’ white on the bottles and in the mice’s
heyes--and there you are!]

[Illustration: CRITIC. De bicture you haff bainted is most peautiful;
der is only von vordt in the English langweege vot describes eet, and I
haf vorgotten eet.]

[Illustration: JONES (_to Brown, who has been to a ball at Robinson’s_).
Many women there?

BROWN. No; only their mothers.]

[Illustration: FOR EXHIBITION?

PAINTER. Oh! they won’t hang it, I know--’tis of no use sending it.

WIFE. Well, Michael, if you keep it here they won’t hang it, we
know--send it and try: they hang bad pictures sometimes.

  [_Michael is encouraged._]

[Illustration: PRETTY INNOCENT.

LADY. Oh, Mr. Mastic, why do artists have screens about their studios?

ARTIST. To back up the figures, and so on.

LADY. Oh, really! Well, I thought it was to keep the bedstead and all
that out of sight, you know.]

[Illustration: “AYE, THERE’S THE RUB!”

IRASCIBLE PATRON (_who has wiped out a good deal of Funkie’s great
work_). Confound your nasty picture, sir! See what it has done! The
canvas is reeking with paint, sir--positively reeking! It’s disgraceful!

  [_Exit in a whirlwind._]

[Illustration: ARTIST (_to his hypochondriacal friend with an
independence_). Ah! my dear fellow, if you had to work hard and get your
own living as we have, you’d have no dyspepsia, I’ll be bound;
good-bye.]

[Illustration: THE MARCH OF SCIENCE.

ARTIST (_as a hint to his friend_). Bless me! Five o’clock! I had no
idea it was so late. How quickly time does fly now!

YANKEE. Which I calc’late it’s all owin’ to the vast improvements
effected in clocks by our great country.]

[Illustration: THE REAL.

MARY JANE _in reply to_ OLIVIA.

“The same romantic creature as ever! His name is not Algernon, but plain
Robert; and he’s not an Apelles, but a hard-working fellow, with enough
of genius to make me proud of him. As to his model--etc., etc.

  [_For “The Ideal,” see p. 156._]

[Illustration: PLEASURES OF THE STUDIO.

At the beginning of April, when every moment is of consequence, Mr.
Flake White’s model for Hamlet appears with a black eye, which he
declares is the effect of influenza.]

[Illustration: A HAPPY MEDIUM.

DEALER. Ah! there’s good transparency there. What do you mix your colour
with?

ARTIST. Brains.]

[Illustration: THE IDEAL.

_From_ OLIVIA _to_ MARY JANE

“And so, _dearest_, you have married _an artist!_ How like you, who was
always such an admirer of the _beautiful_. * * * I can see you ’_in my
mind’s eye_’; your Algernon (his name _is_ Algernon, is it not,
dearest?) seated like _another_ Apelles at his easel, whilst you, his
own Cantaspe, make the most graceful of models. You remember----

    “Apelles, when Cantaspe’s form he drew,
    Bade her remove the look of love she wore,
    Lest others should adore,” etc., etc.

  [_For “The Real,” see page 154._]

[Illustration: ARTIST. My big picture? I haven’t painted in the two
principal figures yet; because I can’t find anybody pretty enough to sit
for them. Ah! Miss _Mary_, if I could only induce _you_ just to----

MISS BRIDGET. Oh! my _dear_ Mr. M’Gilp, we should _both_ be only too
delighted! When shall we come to your studio? How shall we dress? and
what style of coiffure?

  [_Now, what_ is _a fellow to say in such a fix as this?_]

       *       *       *       *       *

James McNeill Whistler and a friend, strolling through a London suburb,
met a small boy. Whistler asked him his age.

“Seven,” the boy replied.

“Oh, you must be more than seven,” said Whistler doubtingly.

“Seven,” insisted the boy, rather pleased at being taken for older.

Turning to his friend, Whistler said, “Do you think it possible that he
really could have got as dirty as that in only seven years?”

[Illustration: ANSWERS FOR OUR ARTIST.--“Biddy Maloney, just you look at
that clock! Didn’t I tell you last night to knock at my door at eight
this morning?”

“An’ so ye did, sir, and I came to the door at eight sure enough, but I
heard ye was making no noise at all!”

“Well, why the dickens didn’t you knock, and wake me?”

“Sure, and because I feared yez might be fast asleep!”]

[Illustration: THE MOTHER OF INVENTION.

Mrs. Fred doesn’t care how long she sits for her “dear Fred,” so long as
her “darling Freddy” is in some safe place where he can’t get into
mischief.]

[Illustration: KINDLY MEANT.

CHROME (_to friend_). Well, and how do I get on with the doublet? Is it
more like leather?

CONSCIENTIOUS FRIEND. Why, no; I can’t say it is--but (_apologetically_)
you’ve got the face very like leather.]

[Illustration: PAINTER (_aghast_).--Good heavens, man! Where’s your
beard? What have you done to your face?

MODEL. Me, sir? Naethin, but just made my whiskers a wee thing decent
wi’ the shears.

PAINTER. Then you’re an utterly ruined man, sir! and I’m very sorry for
you. You’re not worth twopence. Good-morning.]

[Illustration: How some of the old painters _must_ have worked to get
through anything like the number of “original” pictures attributed to
them.]

[Illustration: STUDIO PERSUASION.

_Our friend Jack McGilp to excited partner, who has just the head for
his picture of “A Husband’s Revenge.”_--So she won’t stand any longer,
won’t she? Of course she won’t. _I’ll get a model._

  [_The effect is magical._]

[Illustration: COOK. Lawks, miss, it’s beautiful; but I’d no idea your
pa was a portrait painter!]

[Illustration: A MODEL HUSBAND AND A LAY FIGURE.

What Miss Grundy saw in her brother-in-law’s studio.

_What Miss Grundy said about it to her sister._--“Perfectly
disgraceful--and to crown it all she was bald!”]

[Illustration: MARVELLOUS!

YOUNG LADY. Ah! really, Mr. Splurge, I can’t think how you manage to
paint with such taste.

MR. S. Simply by holding my palate in my hand, I assure you.]

[Illustration: A VISIT TO THE STUDIO.

MR. OCHRE (_through whose frame a thrill of horror is supposed to be
passing_). Ugh! mind what you’re about, Charley. Mind my Ophelia; mind
my Ophelia! You’ll knock her over, and spoil all her folds!]

[Illustration: SCENE IN A STUDIO.

Jack Armstrong has painted a modern subject, from real life, and painted
it uncommonly well.--Strange to say, he has sold his picture.

Messrs. Feeble and Potter (_very high-art men, who can’t get on
without mediæval costume, and all the rest of it_) think it a
mistake.--Curiously enough, _their_ pictures are unsold.]

[Illustration: Ballet of action with which Sparkles (who says he is so
hard at work at his picture), and his friend and model, Jack Bounce,
refresh themselves in the intervals of labour.]

[Illustration: TURPS _v._ TURPITUDE.

The above represents a slight mistake made by Scumble’s new charwoman,
who, being “partial to her drops,” thought she had a chance.]

[Illustration: ONE USE FOR “DUNDREARYS.” (1863.)

Fitzdab (_who does the Dundreary sort of thing_) having brought his
whiskers to a pitch of perfection seldom equalled, gives the finishing
touches to Dolly Jenkins’s portrait with the tips.]

[Illustration: ACCOMMODATING!

STERN PARENT. Too fat for a page, you think, sir? Um! You see, sir, if
so be you could wait a week or so, we could redooce him wery easy.]

[Illustration: COTTON LORD (_“coming” the noble patron_). Haw--I was
indooced to buy a little picture of yours, the other day, Stodge,
haw----

ARTIST (_who does not seem to see it_). Lucky fellow!!]

[Illustration: “NOBLESSE OBLIGE!”

STODGE (_in answer to the reproachful look of his cabman_). Well, it’s
your right fare; you know that as well as I do!

CABBY. Oh! which I’m well aware o’ that, sir! But--(“_more in sorrow
than in anger_”)--an’ you a artis’, sir!!

  [_Gets another shilling!_]

[Illustration: OUR ART-SCHOOL CONVERSAZIONE.

At which (in consequence of the increased space anticipated at the R.A.
exhibition) there is a greater crowd than usual.

MODEL (_who has charge of the hats and coats_). No. 97? Yessir. There
now! If I didn’t see that ’at--ah--not a quarter of an hour ago!!

  [_Not a very satisfactory look-out for Bouncefield, who has barely
  time to catch his last train!_]

[Illustration: OUR ARTIST THINKS OF PAINTING A PICTURE FROM MACAULAY’S
“IVRY,”

AND DECLAIMS THE POEM TO A PROSAIC PARTY.

OUR ARTIST (_ore rot._). “* * * * *

    Charge by the golden lilies! upon them with the lance!
    A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,
    A thousand knights are pressing close behind----”

PROSAIC PARTY (_interrupting_). Hullo!

OUR ARTIST. Eh?

PROSAIC PARTY. Why, hang it, that’s only one spur a-piece!]

[Illustration: “SHARP’S THE WORD.”

_Enter Lord Blasonby (hastily) to sit for his portrait in Stodge’s
picture of the Chalkshire hunt._

STODGE. I understood you to say you would come yesterday, my lord; and I
am engaged this morning. Lady Flouncer is coming at one o’clock.

MY LORD. Haw! just in time, then. Cut away. You’ve got a good ten
minutes. Wants a quarter to one, now!]

  “I ordered you to paint me some cows in a stable. I see the stable,
  but where are the cows?”

  “They are in the stable.”

  “So is your pay for this picture. You had better bring both out.”

[Illustration: THE SYMPATHIES OF ART.

TAILOR (_to artist customer_). Looky ’ere, sir,--I’ll put it to you!
you’re a drawer yourself, and if you knew the years I’ve been studyin’
the ’uman figger--you wouldn’t tell me that coat don’t fit!]

[Illustration: UNDER A GREAT MASTER.]

[Illustration: FAST COLOURS.

ARTIST (READING NOTE FROM OBLIGED FRIEND). Um,--um,--much obliged to you
for the loan of your Bedouin’s dress--(um,--um,)--will return it in a
day or two, as I’ve, (ah! what!) sent it--to--the WASH!!

  [_The artist’s feelings (for colour
  especially) may be easier imagined
  than described._]

[Illustration: NOBODY DESIRES THE PAINTER TO MAKE HIM AS UGLY AND AS
RIDICULOUS AS POSSIBLE.

(In this engraving by George Cruikshank the figure of the artist is a
portrait of Cruikshank himself.)]

       *       *       *       *       *

“What colour of hair do you prefer, Mr. Baldwon, black or blonde?”

“I would not care what colour it was, if I only had some!”

       *       *       *       *       *

“Your last book, madame, had a colossal success.”

“I should say so! Every one of my three divorced husbands wanted to
re-marry me!”

       *       *       *       *       *

A great man was complaining of all the charities to which he was forced
to contribute.

“I give without counting,” he groaned.

“Yes, but not without recounting,” replied a friend.

[Illustration: PERFECT SINCERITY; OR, THINKINGS ALOUD.

ARTIST NO. 1. There, Master Oker, I flatter myself that will take the
shine out of your precious production, although you do think nobody can
paint but yourself.

ARTIST NO. 2. Hey! dear, dear, dear! That’s very bad. By jove, my boy,
it’s a dreadful falling-off from last year. If I were you, I should
think twice before I sent it in.

ARTIST NO. 1. Mere envy--illiberal humbug.]

       *       *       *       *       *

PROFESSOR. I came in accordance with an invitation I received to examine
your collection of curiosities.

PARVENU (_just returned from long voyage_). Certainly, professor, walk
right in. Allow me to first introduce to you my wife and daughters.

[Illustration: EASILY SATISFIED.

FOND PARENT. I don’t care, Mr. Medium, about it’s being highly finished;
but I should like the dear child’s expression preserved.]

       *       *       *       *       *

FIRST AUTHOR. “Well, what do you think of the book of our colleague
Tintinger?”

SECOND AUTHOR. “Oh, what a shameless bidder for notoriety!”

“What! How so?”

“Did you not read the dedication, ’To my mother-in-law, with sincere
esteem’?”

       *       *       *       *       *

FIRST ARTIST. Well, are you satisfied with the appreciation that marine
view of yours has received?

SECOND ARTIST. Delighted. Two women just stopped in front of it and one
said to the other, “It just makes me seasick to look at it.”

[Illustration: THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON.

FRAME-MAKER (_who comes to measure Stodge’s academy pictures_). Now, I
think it’s a pity you don’t let me have some o’ these for my winder,
since you have no idea of the amount of rubbish I can get rid of at
times.]

       *       *       *       *       *

There has been much discussion as to the assistance that photography
might render judicial authorities in enabling the arrest of criminals.

Yet this is what recently occurred in France. Six photographs in
different poses of the same criminal who had escaped from prison were
sent out to all the communes of France. From the mayor of one of these
districts the following letter was received:

“Five of the criminals whose photographs you sent have already been
arrested; we are on the track of the sixth.”

[Illustration: AS SCUMMLES’S PICTURES ARE INVARIABLY “SKYED” AT THE
ROYAL ACADEMY, HE HAS GIVEN UP HIGH FINISH, AND ADAPTS HIS STYLE TO THE
CIRCUMSTANCES!]



[Illustration: ROUND THE GALLERIES

CAUTION.--(To the two young ladies in pink bonnets who expressed such
enthusiasm about Mr. B. Stubbs’s pictures, and would so like to see that
“dear Mr. Stubbs.”) The tall young man who on overhearing the above
praise, wetted his pocket-handkerchief, and removed an imaginary speck
of dust from Mr. S.’s picture, thereby trying to convey the impression
that he was the fortunate man who had painted it, is some impudent
impostor, and never touched a canvas before in his life. Mr. B. Stubbs
is a good-looking, _short_ man, with wideawake, auburn beard and
spectacles.]


PAINTERS AND GAZERS

A SKETCH AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY

[Illustration]

  I had hopes--I know that they have proved to be unfounded, but I
  cannot admit that they were unreasonable!--I _had_ hopes that I should
  have been able to avail myself of the privilege of free admission
  conceded to exhibitors. Unfortunately, I do not exhibit!

  I sent three pictures! 1 (a pre-Raphaelite bit of nature), “Docks and
  Marsh Mallows”; 2 (an attempt to depict a really unhackneyed
  historical situation), “Charles the Second in the Oak”; 3 (a genre
  painting), “The New Crinoline.”

  If it were becoming (which it is not) I could say a good deal about
  these works; but I forbear to do so. _They were all three rejected by
  the Hanging Committee._

  I have accordingly paid my shilling, and I mean to take it out in
  criticism. The Academicians have exercised _their_ rights; I shall use
  mine. There will be plenty of hacks to fawn upon the imbecile
  canvas-spoilers, the miserable, crass, cringing, dull, feeble,
  superannuated, impotent, and abject Forty. Of those hacks I decline to
  be one. Honest truth (uninfluenced by passion) is what the wretched
  dotards shall hear from _me_.

[Illustration]

  I saw men prowling about (there was Mr. Thackeray, for instance, as
  large as life, and a host of other “successful” men--_I_ hate
  success!) who had evidently made up their minds to be pleased with
  this, the most disreputable Exhibition that ever degraded British Art.
  Let them. Thoughts is free, as Mrs. Brown said at the play; _and so
  are mine_. It is all very well to get a set of literary time-servers
  to hob and nob with Academicians at the annual orgie which disgraces
  Trafalgar-square, and on which hundreds of pounds are spent that ought
  to be devoted to the development of talent such as that of--well, of
  some I _could_ name; but _I_ was never invited to the so-called
  banquet. Banquet, indeed! I would rather maintain my honest
  independence, though I had nothing to eat but a polony--and this is
  sometimes the case! Look at young Mr. Marcus Stone. I’ll be bound to
  say _he_ never eats polonies--and yet all London is talking of his
  “Napoleon,” whilst my “New Crinoline” has not yet met even with a
  dealer!

[Illustration: AN ARTIST’S DREAM, AFTER SENDING IN HIS PICTURES WET TO
THE ROYAL ACADEMY.]

  Look at Mr. Ruskin. What did they do to _him_? Why, they asked him to
  dinner! What was the result?

  His Critical Notes have never appeared since!! Not that it matters
  much.

[Illustration: The advantage of the practice of “athletic exercises” by
young painters, as recommended by a great critic.]

[Illustration: The proprietors of the Royal Academy don’t see why they
should be troubled with so many works by other fellows. Oh dear, no! Let
them exhibit their pictures outside!]

  Exhibition, indeed! Why, you can’t see anything--not that there is
  much to see--for the crowd of gaping women that block up the hideous
  and uncomfortable rooms with their preposterous crinoline--and yet the
  Academicians rejected _mine_! Then, the “swells”--a set of lounging
  insipid imbeciles, drawling out their vapid Dundrearyisms--and the old
  fogies, wagging their stupid old heads--I should like to knock a few
  of them together!--and the smug, smiling fellows whose pictures have
  been accepted--and the “Art-Critics,” who pretend to see power in a
  man like Millais, and poetry in a man like Hook, and humour in a man
  like Marks, but who are far too high and mighty, I promise you, to
  come up four pair of stairs and see my “Marsh Mallows,”--and if they
  did, they couldn’t appreciate them! There, I’m tired of the whole
  concern--pictures and painters and visitors and all--and Mrs. Edwards
  is bothering me for the rent--and, unless you print this, to show up
  the impostors, and send the money by return, I shall have to paint
  sign-boards. David Cox painted one--and I dare say did it badly--for I
  never thought much of _him_! Or any other man!

  _Fun_, 1863.

[Illustration: PLEASURES OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY.]

[Illustration: ART IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY.

ENID (_with catalogue_). Aren’t they splendid?

EILEEN (_using picture as mirror_). Yes, I _must_ say I like these dark
Rembrandts.]

[Illustration: OUTSIDE THE ROYAL ACADEMY.

“You were a silly ass to talk of Botticelli in that way just now. Why,
it’s not a wine, it’s a cheese!”]

[Illustration: THE CHARMING FASHION OF LONG SKIRTS (1862).

Honestly, now--which of the two ought to apologize to the other?]

       *       *       *       *       *

POET. What do you think of this little poem of mine, “She Would Not
Smile.”

EDITOR. I think if you had read the poem to her she would have smiled.

       *       *       *       *       *

PROFESSOR (_turning angrily to class_). This is intolerable! Every time
I speak an imbecile talks.

       *       *       *       *       *

BOARDER (_to landlady_). Did you hear me come home last night?

LANDLADY. Did I? I heard you coming home for several hours!

[Illustration: “UNTO THIS LAST.”

PROVINCIAL (_at the Leeds Exhibition_). I’ve heeard as the paint on some
o’ these yere “picters” comes to a matter o’ fi’ pounds sometimes, let
alone the man’s time a layin’ of it on, yer know!!!]

[Illustration: “VERY LIKE--VERY LIKE.”

Mr. B. A. Boone having given Smudger, R.H.A., leave to exhibit his
portrait, is intensely delighted to find there is a slight mistake in
the catalogue, and that the description really belonging to No. 82--“B.
A. Boone, Esq., F.Z.S., etc.”--has been transferred to No. 28.]

       *       *       *       *       *

EISENSTEIN. Hello, old man, what makes you look so worried?

ROSENSTEIN. The doctor ordered me to take a bath!

_Eisenstein._ Cheer up, old man! You can try this new dry cleaning
process.

       *       *       *       *       *

“See what a beautiful set of teeth the baroness has!”

MISS N. V. “Yes, it looks as if she had swallowed a piano, all but the
keyboard.”

       *       *       *       *       *

CHARMING YOUNG WOMAN (_to artist_). But a hundred pounds seems to me too
much for my portrait. I find it so easy to paint myself!

       *       *       *       *       *

“You say your manager threw an inkstand at you?”

“Yes, he did, but I must say for him that he threw the blotting pad
after it.”

[Illustration: THE UMBRELLA QUESTION:

Or, what it would have come to, if some people had had their way.]

[Illustration: PICTURES OF THE ENGLISH, PAINTED BY THE FRENCH.

AN ENGLISH NOBLEMAN, 1848.

MILORD. Godam! Rosbif! I shall sell my wife at Smithfield. Dam!]

       *       *       *       *       *

ETHEL. Good-morning, Mr. Jones. You don’t seem to mind the heat!

JONES (_surlily_). I should say not. All my friends have given me the
cold shoulder.

       *       *       *       *       *

“How attractive that lady over there is! What a fine profile! What
thoughtful, dreamy eyes! If I could only find out in what branch of
knowledge she is especially interested! Listen! She is asking the
librarian something. I wonder what it is.”

LIBRARIAN. “No, madame, I do not know whether he was here yesterday.”

[Illustration: A-MUSING.

MCDAUBER (_who is so afflicted with the habit of thinking aloud_).
Charming bit of colour, that! Marvellous chiaroscuro. Wonder who it’s
by?

  [_Oddly enough it is by McDauber himself!_]

[Illustration: PERHAPS.

STOUT FASHIONABLE PARTY. What guys they made of themselves in those
days, aunt!

SLIM OLD DITTO. Fashion, my dear! I should not wonder but we shall be
looked on as _perfect frights_ in future times!!]

[Illustration: Reception of pictures at the Royal Academy.--Arrival of
the “Portrait of a Gentleman.”]

  “Madame, I have picked out a charming husband for you. Only I warn you
  he is a thorough sportsman. Fond of motoring, mountain-climbing,
  bicycling, and ballooning.”

  APPLICANT (_thoughtfully_). “Can’t you give me something that lasts
  longer?”

       *       *       *       *       *

  “I can’t understand how a man can commit suicide for love.”

  “It happens frequently.”

  “Well, perhaps so, but if I did it, I should regret it all my life.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  “Hello, Jimson, whither so fast?”

  “Don’t stop me. I’m going to my employer’s funeral, and there is
  nothing he hates so much as to have any one come in late.”


  OUR
  HISTORICAL
  PORTRAIT
  GALLERY

  1.--HENRY THE EIGHTH
  2.--DR. JOHNSON
  3.--HENRY THE THIRD OF FRANCE
  4.--NAPOLEON I
  5.--LOUIS THE ELEVENTH
  6.--OLIVER CROMWELL
  7.--FREDERICK THE GREAT

[Illustration: 1.]

[Illustration: 2.]

[Illustration: 3.]

[Illustration: 4.]

[Illustration: 5.]

[Illustration: 6.]

[Illustration: 7.]

[Illustration: A STUDY.

Stodge and his friends, Madlake and Blumold, have learnt that their
pictures are hung this year. So, here they are, looking out for some
nice dressy ties for the opening of the Academy. Ah! it’s all very well
to laugh, but personal appearance and “get-up” generally is a very
important thing nowadays, mind you!]

[Illustration: OVERHEARD AT THE ACADEMY.

FIRST ART-CRITIC. Not a bad bit of colour that--great hairial effect,
too!

SECOND DITTO. Jolliest thing in the exhibition, by Jingo!

  [_An explanation of the above is requested;--we cannot find Mr.
  Jingo’s name in the catalogue._]


A DREAM OF UNFAIR WOMEN

BY CLEMENT W. SCOTT.

    I read, as daylight broadened into morn,
      _A Tale of Unfair Women_, in the pause,
    “My youth!” one said, “whenever you have sworn,
      These women were the cause!”

    At first methought a lady at a ball
      Sat with black-bearded warriors by the stair,
    She was _décolletée_ and divinely tall,
      With long, gold-dusted hair.

    A meek young gentleman approached her seat,
      His gloves were split, his waistcoat buttons false;
    She gazed an instant at his clumsy feet,
      Then sneered, “I do not valse!”

    I saw a pic-nic by the river side,
      On scarlet rugs one sat, apart from man,
    Queenlike she was, dark-haired and dreamy-eyed,
      Hat-bound with astracan.

    A melancholy captain in the line
      Drew near at last to pour forth all his heart;
    She turned, “A thousand pardons, friend of mine,
      Where is my cherry-tart?”

    A maid, blue-stockinged, broke the silence drear,
      And flashing forth a winning smile, said she,
    “’Tis long since I have seen a man. Come here,
      Play croquet now with me.”

    She “spooned,” and cheated, and had ankles thick,
      I let her win, the game was such a bore,
    Her bright ball quivered at the coloured stick--
      Touched,--and we played no more.

    I turning saw a couple newly wed;
      She--lately fond of flirting, and a belle--
    Now contradicted every word he said,
      And bullied him as well.

    She said, “Oh! bother business; really, dear,
      You’ve no more feeling for me than a stone;
    I wish my kind mamma lived somewhere near--
      I won’t be left alone!”

    I was cut off from hope in such a place!
      An evening party whence I dared not roam,
    My sister held her hand before her face,
      I longed to be at home.

    I strove to stir, but I was victimized
      To talk to dowagers; between the sets
    Two voiceless females, old and undersized,
      Chirp’d Mendelssohn’s duets.

    But soon my eyes were turned towards a stage--
      This was an awful sight, it haunts me yet--
    I saw a lady, of uncertain age,
      Burlesquing Juliet.

    I saw a spectacled, but wild mamma,
      Coaxing her daughter with a fair-haired lad;
    Then, hearing he made nothing, frowned; and, ah!
      Called the young man “a cad.”

    I heard old maids take characters away;
      I saw young ladies dress like men and smoke;
    An authoress next read a five-act play,
      ’Twas wicked, and I woke.

  _Fun_, 1865.

[Illustration:

  1.--_Early Pie-ety._
  2.--_The Mother’s Pet._
  3.--_Rough Weather off the Coast of Devon._
  4.--_A Shady Pool._
  5.--_A Village Style._
  6.--_The Mace-bearer._
  7.--_Summer._
  8.--_Spring._

A FEW SUGGESTIONS FOR THE ROYAL ACADEMY CATALOGUE. (1868.)]



[Illustration: THE ARTIST OUT OF DOORS

“IT’S AN ILL WIND,” ETC.

Our artist takes advantage of the utter prostration of the poor sick
passengers, and fills his sketch-book.]


[Illustration: THE OLD COTTAGE.]

[Illustration: _Scene_--The Elysium of Artists. Albert Durer, Rafael,
Michael Angelo, Titian, Paul Veronese, Rubens, Reynolds, etc.]


IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS

  _P. Veronese._ And you saw this English Painter, who has last arrived
  among us, Sir Joshua?

  _Sir J. Reynolds._ I did--and, faith, with the more interest that such
  arrivals become, every day, more rare. But I would rather keep back
  his tidings from our friends here.

  _All._ Nay--speak--speak!

  _Rubens._ You know, my friend, we have no jealousies here--nor
  schools.

  _Rafael._ Our noble Michael has forgiven my youthful presumption.

  _M. Angelo._ Not a word of that--I was to blame. _Basta!_ You acted
  nobly, gracefully, kindly as ever.

  _Titian._ The outline of Rome embraces the colour of Venice; and
  Titian here, after life, recognizes the might of Michael Angelo, and
  the saintliness of Rafael.

  _Rubens._ Strange how blind we were on earth!

[Illustration: “A PRETTY PROSPECT!”

NATIVE (_to our Landscape Painter, who has come down to sketch_). Why,
sir, in this ’ere valley that you’re a goin’ to, you may see--ah--three
splendid viaducts all at once, and one o’ the largest cloth factories in
the West of England!]

  _A. Durer._ But the news from England?

  _M. Angelo._ I love your commercial races and their merchant princes.
  Florence should have been my home. Has England such patrons of art as
  Soderini--

  _Rafael._ Or as my dear Agostino Chigi? He was a banker, but had the
  soul of a king. How I loved him! Are there such bankers in England?

[Illustration: ARTIST. This canvas is going to create a sensation.]

[Illustration: Crack!

THE POSSIBILITIES OF A PENNY PISTOL AND A BOX OF CAPS.]

[Illustration: TECHNICAL AND PRACTICAL.

MAULSTIC. Hullo, Jack, what _are_ you after?

JACK. Oh, my foreground didn’t come well, so I’m _putting it together_ a
bit.]

  _A. Durer._ Or as my worthy burghers of Nüremberg--the friends of
  Luther and Melancthon--are such the shopkeepers of England?

  _P. Veronese._ Or such traders as my noble Levantine merchants of the
  Rialto?

[Illustration: How two friends of ours who can’t bear being looked over
while they are sketching, circumvented the impertinent curiosity of the
vulgar.]

[Illustration: Old Streekie, R.A., thought it very hard that he could
not run down to the seaside for a week, after the opening of the
Academy, without meeting “that pre-Raphaelite fellow Cleevidge loafing
about there, the first time he walks out.”]

[Illustration: WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS.

MISS JONES (_loq._). So glad there are no horrid cows in the field this
morning.]

  _Reynolds._ Hush! friends, one at a time, or I drop my ear-trumpet, as
  I used to do, when Boswell would put troublesome questions. I fear
  England hardly boasts such men as you have mentioned. But there is a
  large subscription to the Art-Union, and bad pictures are greedily
  bought at small prices; good ones at large prices are few in number,
  and of that few still fewer are sold.

  _Rubens._ I grieve to hear it. But what of your English sovereign? His
  Majesty, Charles the First (I was ambassador to his Court, you may
  remember, from my royal friend, Philip of Spain) would stand by my
  easel for hours, watching me at work, and discoursing to me of art.
  Doubtless, your sovereign shows like grace to our brethren of this
  later time?

[Illustration: A DESIGN FOR AN ALBUM.

The artist who gives up his time to drawing in albums is like a
midshipman on half pay--gets “nothing a day and finds himself.”]

  _A. Durer._ Nay, you are modest, my Rubens. For the _Liebe Deutsche
  Schule_, I must speak for you. Not Charles alone--but the Gonzaga of
  Mantua, Duke Albert, Philip the Spaniard, and the queenly Medici,
  gloried in calling you their friend and counsellor.

  _M. Angelo._ They did not honour Art--Art honoured them. How often
  have I told that hard truth to our Holy Father, fiery old Julius! He
  cuffed his Chamberlain once, for denying it. But for my own part, I
  never much affected your kings and great folks.

[Illustration: This is Jack Sparkles, who used to be such a thorough
pre-Raphaelite, as we came upon him “at work” the other day--at least he
called it so. He said he had come to the conclusion that “painting was,
after all, more or less a matter of memory, and that he was studying
skies!!”]

  _Rafael._ Thy noble nature disdained such shelter as we weaker and
  more luxurious spirits were fain to take under their escutcheons. And
  our Leonardo here--Francis, seemed never so great a king as when he
  picked up thy pencil, oh, my friend, lord not only of thine art, but
  of all knowledge!

[Illustration: CULTURE FOR THE MILLION; OR, SOCIETY AS IT MAY BE.

INGENUAS DIDICISSE FIDELITER ARTES, etc., etc.--NURSEMAID. The
perspective of the _Chiaroscuro_ is divine, Augustus. But, oh! the
_impasto_, is it not a _leetle_ too _pizzicato_?]

  _Leonardo da Vinci._ Is Art so honoured by the great of England?

  _Sir J. Reynolds._ Hum! Oh, His Majesty George the III was pleased to
  give a charter to the Royal Academy. I have been presented--but,
  certainly, I don’t remember to have seen him in my painting room at
  Leicester Square, or to have been asked to take a seat in the Privy
  Council.

  _Rafael._ But your reigning monarch is a Queen. Woman has ever loved
  the Beautiful. Surely she much affects you painters.

  _Sir J. Reynolds._ Hum--ha--I am extremely deaf.

  _P. Veronese_ (_shouting into his trumpet_). Does the Queen give due
  honour to our brethren?

  _Sir J. Reynolds._ I am assured she has had painted already ten
  portraits of her gracious self, thirty of her Royal consort, twenty of
  the Royal infants, and fifty of the Royal pets, from paroquet to
  Brazilian monkey.

  _M. Angelo._ These are your court painters, who so disgrace their
  calling. But your _Artists_? How goes it at the palace with them?

  _Rubens._ Seated at the Royal board, doubtless--in places of honour.

  _L. da Vinci._ Where else should sit the architects, engineers,
  philosophers, poets of the nation--in whom all knowledge is orbed
  around the Beautiful, and grows to Art?

  _Sir J. Reynolds._ I am not informed that they _do_ sit _exactly_ at
  the Royal board, but the equerries’ table is excellent--and no
  doubt----

  _M. Angelo._ _Basta!_ Do not mince words, man--out with it. The
  painters’ table with the lackeys! Excellent England!

[Illustration: AN ARTIST SCAMP IN THE HIGHLANDS.

ARTIST (_entering_). My good woman, if you’ll allow me, I’ll just paint
that bedstead of yours.

COTTAGER (_with bob-curtsey_). Thank ye, sir, I’ sure it’s very kind of
ye--but dinna ye think the wee yin wants it more?]

  _Titian_ (_aside_). These islanders! But our pictures which adorn your
  English galleries, my Bacchus and Ariadne--I painted it for Gonzaga.

  _M. Angelo._ Well remembered, Vicellio. There’s Sebastiano’s picture,
  too, in your gallery; I painted the Lazarus, my Rafael, to shame thee.
  Blister my hand for it! How of it?

  _Rafael._ It is a noble work, and I was honoured by such a rivalry.

  _Rubens._ And my Peace and War? I painted it for your Charles, before
  I opened my negotiation for peace with Spain. Surely it is well
  cared-for, as a historic record, if not as a picture?

  _Sir J. Reynolds._ Really my trumpet is out of order--I must go.

  _P. Veronese_ (_pulling him back_). Nay, nay, you must tell us of our
  pictures. Do they stand your fogs and damps? Are they still brightly
  mellow, defying time and circumstance as such art should do?

[Illustration: INGENIOUS PROTECTION AGAINST MIDGES--A VALUABLE HINT TO
SKETCHERS FROM NATURE.]

[Illustration: SKETCHING FROM NATURE.

Miss Raphael makes a study for her grand picture, “The Day after the
Deluge.”]

  _Sir J. Reynolds._ Why, the fact is, my friends--I am sorry to
  say--but our climate is so very damp, and London so smoky--that they
  have been cleaned.

  _All._ Cleaned!

  _Titian._ My Bacchus and Ariadne! Oh my tints! Oh my glazings! A
  picture of mine cleaned!

  _Rubens._ My Peace and War! Cleaned! say flayed rather. I know your
  cleaners. Oh wasted labour; reputation obscured; thoughtful work
  rudely scrubbed away!

  _All._ Shame and horror!

[Illustration: FIRST ARTIST (_who has looked in as he was passing_). How
are you? I say, Stapyton, have you heard what your “Cavalier in a
Coal-Hole” went for at Jobinson’s yesterday?

SECOND ARTIST. No; how much, my dear fellow; how much?

FIRST ARTIST. Why, very nearly a pound, I heard!

OMNES (_delighted_). Hurrah!]

  _M. Angelo._ So much for your _oil-painting_. Nay--excuse me, my
  Rafael--I sympathize with you; but why not work in fresco? Cheer up,
  my Titian.

[Illustration: ART AT A CATTLE SHOW.

FIRST SMALL BOY. I say, Bill, what’s he a doing of?

SECOND DITTO. Can’t you see he’s a-taking that old gent’s picture, and
_isn’t_ it like him?]

[Illustration: WHAT AN ARTIST HAS TO PUT UP WITH.

“O! look’ee ’ere, Jane, ’ere’s one of them hacrobats a-goin’ to do the
ladder-trick!”]

  _Titian._ Alas! my favourite work--my Bacchus! Cleaned! Oh Ghost of
  Gonzaga! Barbarians!

  _Leonardo da Vinci._ Nay, weep not, my beloved friends and brothers.
  Is it not all of a piece? Art-Unions, royal lap-dogs, condescensions
  which are insults, and your great pictures ruined and destroyed. Why
  should you wish to exist in a country where your works have been
  impotent to implant the seeds of Art, or aid in their growth and
  nurture.

  _Titian._ _Oimè_ for Venice.

  _Rafael._ Oh Roma, Roma!

  _A. Durer._ Nay--Nüremberg, also, is a town of burghers, and it is not
  so with them.

  _Sir J. Reynolds_ (_aside_). I cannot console them. Their indignation
  is too well grounded. I, too, am a painter, but I alone am ashamed of
  my country!

  _Punch_, 1847.

[Illustration: Our artist enjoying himself in the Highlands. * * * * “On
fine hot days, I have this to carry on my back.”]

[Illustration: “On wet days, with my waterproof clothing, I am as
comfortable as possible.”--_Extract from a Private Letter._]

[Illustration: “THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE (SKETCHING) SEASON.”

PAPA. There, Henry! If you could do like that, I’d have you _taught
drawing_, my boy!]

[Illustration: “FINE ART.”

RURAL CONNOISSEUR. He’s a p’intin’ two pictur’s at once, d’yer see?
’Blest if I don’t like that there little ’un as he’s got his thumb
through, the best!]

[Illustration: “BROTHER BRUSH.”

SHIP-PAINTER. Nice dryin’ weather for our business, ain’t it, sir?

AMATEUR (_disconcerted_). Ya-a-s!

  [_Takes a dislike to the place_]

[Illustration: MAKING THE BEST OF IT.

To artists who have big pictures returned on their hands:--“If you can’t
live _by_ them, live _under_ them!”]

[Illustration: ONE REASON, CERTAINLY!

FIRST ARTIST. Who’ll be the next Academician?

SECOND ARTIST. Oh, Faddler, my dear fellow, unquestionably!

FIRST ARTIST (_incredulous_). Nonsense!

SECOND ARTIST. Oh, there’s no doubt about it! A very good fellow, you
know, and he’s lived a long time at St. John’s Wood!]

[Illustration: ÆSTHETICS.

FADSBY (_in agony; he’s a martyr to the decorative art of the nineteenth
century_). Oh! Mrs. Grabbit--I really must--implore you--to remove those
chimney ornam--ugh!--those two--fictile abominations--from this room
while I remain he-ar!

  [_Of all the artis’s, Mrs. Grabbit said, as she’d ever let
  her apartments to, he was the most partic’lar._]

[Illustration: A BROAD HINT.

STUMPY ARTIST (_to friend with a Government appointment and lots of
time_). Come and see my picture; can’t you come in the daytime early?
And look ’ere: do you know a tall, handsome, gentlemanly-looking fellow,
with a light beard and moustache, who would sit to me for my Hungarian
Chief?]

[Illustration: PLEASANT FOR JACK DAUBS, WHO IMAGINES THAT HIS DRAWINGS
ARE RATHER TURNERESQUE.

FIRST ART CRITIC. I do b’lieve he’s a-painting the sky.

SECOND DITTO. Noa, he ain’t. He’s a-painting them people.

THIRD DITTO. Noa, he’s a-doing sommut out of his head.]

[Illustration: FLATTERING!

FIRST RUSTIC. ’Str’or’nary way o’ gettin’ yer livin’! Ain’t it, Joe?

SECOND DITTO. Aye, that ’t be, William. _Cripples_ o’ some sort, most on
’em, you may depend!]

[Illustration: OUR ADVENTUROUS ARTIST

Sketching on the Cornish coast, he has taken precautions against
slipping over the rocks. Our artist is seen, from below, by the learned
German Professor Longbauer, who, after he made the most of it in his
_Travels_, described this incident as an instance of the cruel treatment
of their political prisoners by the English Government!]

[Illustration: ART AND SCIENCE.

MAHLSTYCK (_who has been at it all day for a week making a
pre-Raphaelite study of seashore_). I say, some of you fellows in the
gunboat yesterday very nearly hit me once or twice!

JACK TAR. Lor, was that you sittin’ here yesterday, sir? Why, you was so
still we thought you was a bush or summut--we was _practisin’ at you_!]

[Illustration: AN EYE FOR COLOUR.

1ST ART STUDENT. Fine sunset that, Jack, but fancy I’ve seen it before.

2ND DITTO. Of course; decided crib from Turner. Saw it at a glance!]

[Illustration: IGNORANCE _WAS_ BLISS.

WAITER. Yes, sir. We had a gentleman here, only last week, as took a
sketch of that very ’ill, sir.

ARTIST (_abstractedly_). Oh, indeed! Was he an artist?

WAITER (_indignantly_). Oh, no! sir--a perfect gentleman.]

[Illustration: OUR ARTIST

IS NOT IN THE BEST OF TEMPERS. HE HAS BEEN DISTURBED OFTEN BY BARGES,
AND BOTHERED BY THE BLUEBOTTLES, AND THEN HE’S ACCOSTED BY WHAT APPEARS
TO HIM IN THIS IRRITABLE MOOD TO BE AN

ART-CRITIC (_loq._). The picture looks better a goodish bit off,
gov’nour!

ARTIST (_maddened_). Con-found--So do you, sir!

  [_Party makes off hastily, “not liking the looks of him.”_]



[Illustration: SCULPTURE & COMEDY

“Well, there’s one thing: ’e’s well _broke_!”]


[Illustration: THE VENUS OF MILO; OR, GIRLS OF TWO DIFFERENT PERIODS.

CHORUS. Look at her big foot! Oh, what a waist!--and what a ridiculous
little head!--and _no_ chignon! She’s no lady! Oh, what a fright!
(Period 1869.)]


PYRAMUS AND THISBE

A TRAGIC BALLAD

    I sing not now in joyous strain,
      To suit these mirthful pages;
    Mine is a tale of love and pain,
      Black blood and by-gone ages.

    Some people’s wit is small indeed--
      But smaller still must his be,
    Who’s never had the luck to read
      Of Pyramus and Thisbe.

    I do not write for such a dunce,
      My task would be in vain;
    Let those who’ve blubbered at it once,
      Now read, and weep again.

    Of all the beauties of the East,
      Fair Thisbe was the star,
    And Nature gave her--last not least--
      A very cross mamma.

    Next door there lived a “nice young man,”
      One Pyramus by name;
    And laughing Cupid soon began
      To kindle up the flame.

    Then came soft words and softer sighs,
      And “hearts for ever true,”
    And radiant eyes, like summer skies,
      And little _billets-doux_.

    Next Thisbe ’d ask to go and walk,
      Upon some sly pretence,
    And then they’d meet alone, and talk
      Across the garden-fence.

    At last her mother caught her out--
      And scarlet grew her forehead.
    “My stars! miss, what are you about?
      Good gracious me, how horrid!”

    She locked her up--our hero, too,
      Was lectured by his father:
    “Do that again, sir! just you do!
      And won’t I whop you--rather!”

    He begged and prayed: the governor
      Still gave that answer gruff--
    “Lord; what’s the good of lovin’ her?
      A boy like you, sir! stuff!

    “Come, get along! what’s all this fuss?
      Let’s have no more, sir, pray!”
    With broken heart poor Pyramus
      Turn’d in despair away.

    He moped all day, and talked to none,
      Through dim and lone woods wending;
    Men cried, “If this be lover’s fun,
      Our hearts are worth defending!”

    When day was done, the night again
      Brought visions of his fairy:
    Alas! how vain the tender pain,
      “_In statu pupillari_.”

    He cried, “Oh this is hard, indeed--
      I mayn’t caress my love, nor
    With blameless word win blameless meed--
      O cruel, cruel guv’nor!”

    I said, you know, some time ago,
      Their houses stood contiguous;
    Not _dos-à-dos_, but in a row--
      I hate to be ambiguous.

    Well, little Love, who’s up to snuff,
      In pitying mood, one day,
    Proposed a plan; and sure enough
      They tried, and found it pay.

    He whispered in the ear of each,
      “=Seek out some little hole in
    Your wall, through which your lover’s speech
      May echo most consoling=.”

    They searched above, they searched below,
      To find affection’s keyhole;
    Till--just when all appear’d “no go,”
      They found a little wee hole.

[Illustration]

    A rotten brick had come in two--
      They saw the cranny--nay, more.
    They saw their love by peeping through,
      Ah! “_Quid non sentit amor?_”

    They poked the useless brick away
      By digging out the mortar;
    And there they passed the livelong day
      In whispers and “soft sawder.”

    Then, Thisbe ’d cry, “Oh dear, oh dear,
      My eyes are full of dust, love;
    You must come round and kiss me here,
      Indeed, indeed, you must, love.”

    And then, poor Pyramus would say,
      “God bless me, how can this be?
    I’ve kissed a dirty lump of clay,
      And not my pretty Thisbe!

    “Bad wall, bad wall! thy chink is small,
      Thy big stones almost hide her:
    Why leave the little hole at all
      Unless a little wider?

    “O will you meet me quite alone
      To-morrow night, my dear,
    Beyond brass-gated Babylon
      Where walls can’t interfere.

    “Let’s meet by nine, at Ninus’ tomb,
      Under the mulberry-tree,
    The moon that lights the sunless gloom
      Shall light my love to me.”

    ’Tis night--the moon has flung her beam
      Far down the glowing wave,
    Where rolls Euphrates’ silent stream
      Fast by the monarch’s grave:--

    The night-wind bids the forest groan
      And leafy branches reel;--
    But, Lord! Who’s this--and all alone--
      In such a _déshabille_.

    ’Tis Thisbe! hear it, wise mammas,
      The lesson’s told concisely,--
    Don’t bother Love by bolts and bars,
      Or you’ll be diddled nicely!

[Illustration]

    For though her mother--cross old cat--
      Had safely locked her in,
    _She_ knew a trick worth two of that,
      And didn’t care a pin.

    She soon escaped--no matter how--
      And ere the bell tolled nine,
    Sat trembling where the forest bough
      Danced in the pale moonshine.

[Illustration: “INGENUAS DIDICISSE,” AND SO ON.

URBANE FOREIGNER. The--ah--contemplation of these--ah--relics of ancient
art in the galleries of Europe, must be most int’r’sting to
the--ah--educated American!

AMERICAN TOURIST. Wa’al, don’t seem to care much for these _stone gals_,
somehow, stranger!]

    She sat and watched the waters roll,
      And more impatient grew:--
    At last she heard a horrid growl,--
      “Oh, dear, what shall I do?”

    “Speak, Pyramus! Where are you! Oh,
      I hear that growl again!
    How can you leave your Thisbe so?
      You must--you must be slain!”

[Illustration]

    She’d hardly done, when trotting by,
      A lion fresh from slaughter,
    With black blood drenched, and savage eye,
      Came from the woods to water.

    Poor Thisbe shuddered at the sight,
      Not relishing his “ivory”;
    “Besides,--especially to-night--
      It’s very hard to die--very!

    “I’ll run and hide behind an oak,
      My stars! just hear him swallow;
    I’d better first throw off my cloak,
      I wonder if he’ll follow!”

    The lion on a hawthorn spray
      Descried the mantle dangling,
    She’d washed it out that very day,
      He stopped--and did the mangling.

[Illustration]

    But ah! the brute was hardly gone
      When Pyramus drew near--
    “My Thisbe! Where’s my love--my own--
      Good gracious me! what’s here?

    “Oh, Thisbe, dearest, are you dead;
      Can this orn robe say true?
    All pawed and clawed and bloody red,--
      My love, I’ll follow you!”

    Then out he drew his shining blade,
      “Grim Death--a friend art thou--
    My folly’s slain earth’s fairest maid!
      I’ll not survive--so now!”

    With that, he gave a deadly dig,
      Another, and one more,
    Then kicked and hollo’d like a pig--
      And his short life was o’er.

    Poor Thisbe! fancy how she cried
      To find her lover struck;--
    “Great Gods! I’ll slumber by his side,
      The darling, darling duck!”

    She snatched the weapon from the wound,
      And bared her snowy breast;
    Once gazed in maddening grief around,
      And then--we know the rest!

  _Punch_, 1844.

[Illustration: AT THE GREAT EXHIBITION OF 1861.

SARAH JANE. Lawks! Why it’s hexact like our Hemmer!]

[Illustration: POPULAR HISTORY.

GUIDE. That heffigy of them two halabaster habbots in ’elmets hare from
a tomb in the Habby of St. Holive’s, founded by ’Enery the fust Tooder,
fort’n ’undred ’n heighty-seven. Their mortal remains was haxumed by
horder hof the R’yal Hantiquarian Serciety seventin heighty-three; their
bodies was found himbammed, and henwelluped in jules!

  [_Procession moves on._]

[Illustration: CAPITAL PUNISHMENT!

“MOTHER” (_at South Kensington_). Executed in ---- Tut-t-t-t! Lauk a
mussy, ’Liza! what did them foreigners want to ’ang that poor
innocent-lookin’ young creetur’ for!!?]

       *       *       *       *       *

A student, showing the Museum at Oxford to a party, produced, among many
other curiosities, a rusty sword. “This,” said he, “is the sword with
which Balaam was going to kill his ass.” One of the company observed
that he thought Balaam had no sword, but only wished for one. “You are
right,” replied the student, “and this is the very sword he wished
for.”

[Illustration: A FLAGRANT ATTEMPT.

Jones prepares a little surprise for his Mary Ann, and has his
equestrian portrait taken. He remarks, “’Ang it, you know, if I do have
my carte done, I don’t see why I shouldn’t ’ave my ’orse!”]



[Illustration: FUNNY FILMS

  Humours of
  Photography.

PHOTOGRAPHER’S TOUT. ’Ave yer photograph took, my lord?

WAG. No, we’re too ugly.

PHOTOGRAPHER’S TOUT. Many a true word spoke in jest, mates.]


[Illustration]


PHOTOGRAPHIC FAILURES

One of the advantages or disadvantages, as the case may be, of many
photographic portraits, is, that they fade away by degrees, and thus
keep pace with those fleeting impressions or feelings under which it is
sometimes usual for one to ask another for his or her miniature. It may
be a strong recommendation of cheap photography, that its pictures will
last as long as the ordinary run of small affections, and, indeed, a
superior specimen of the art may be warranted to retain its outline
throughout a flirtation of an entire month’s durability. We had our own
portrait taken by the cheap process a short time ago, when we received
the above copy of the state of the portrait through a period of an
entire fortnight.

The three specimens shown above represent our portrait when recently
done; the same after it had been in existence a week, and the same after
the expiration of an entire fortnight. The following pathetic ballad was
appended to the specimens which we have given above:--

    Behold thy portrait!--day by day,
      I’ve seen its features die;
    First the moustachios go away,
      Then off the whiskers fly.

    That nose I loved to gaze upon,
      That bold and manly brow,
    Are vanish’d, fled, completely gone--
      Alas! where are they now?

[Illustration: BOBBY’S CAMERA: _S^{O}ME·EFFECTS·HE·GOT·WITH·IT_.]

    Thy hair, which once was black and bright,
      Much worse than grey has grown;
    Indeed, I scarce can say ’tis white,
      For ’t has completely flown.

    Those speaking eyes, which made me trust
      In all you used to vow,
    Are like two little specks of dust--
      Alas! where are they now?

[Illustration: INTERESTING GROUP POSED FOR A PHOTOGRAPH.--I.

By a Friend of the Family.]

[Illustration: INTERESTING GROUP POSED FOR A PHOTOGRAPH.--II.

The Valuable Result.]

    But, ah!--thy portrait of thy love
      Is but a type, no doubt,
    And serves its fickleness to prove,
      For soon ’tis all wiped out.

    Thy hair, thy whiskers, and thine eyes,
      Moustachios, manly brow,
    Have vanished as affection flies--
      Alas!--where is it now?

  _Punch_, 1847.

[Illustration: HAPPY THOUGHT!]

[Illustration: HAPPY THOUGHT!

Ingenious Jones sits for his portrait to a peripatetic photographer, and
cunningly places himself exactly between the apparatus and the
unconscious Oriana, whom he worships at a respectful distance, and whose
likeness he would fain possess.

  [_On this page the reader will
  find, all framed and glazed, for
  3s. 6d. complete, Ingenious
  Jones’s Happy Thought’s result._]

[Illustration: PLEASANT FOR SIMPKINS!

PHOTOGRAPHER (_to Mr. Simpkins_). Keep your head steady, please, sir,
and look in the direction of those young ladies. Steady now, sir! Don’t
wink, sir!

MRS. S. (_by a look that Mr. S. quite understood_). Just let me see him
wink!!]

[Illustration: UNANSWERABLE.

OLD GIRL. Oh, I’ve brought back these cartes of mine, Mr. Kammerer. My
friends are very dissatisfied. They----

PHOTOGRAPHER. Dear me, mum, I’m extremely sorry; I thought the portrait
very----

OLD GIRL. Oh! impossible; it’s hideous!]

[Illustration: CAN THE CAMERA LIE?

GEORGINA (_in riding habit_). Well dear! I declare it’s the very image
of you! I _never_!

SARAH JANE (_who insists upon seeing the plate_). Like me? for goodness’
sake don’t be ridiculous, Georgina. I think it’s perfectly absurd! Why,
it has given me a stupid little turn-up nose, and a mouth that’s
absolutely enormous!]

[Illustration: THE ARTISTIC (!) STUDIO.

_A Stereoscopic Scene from Fashionable Life in 1857._

“_Love, Pride, Revenge._” The group represents a young minstrel of
humble origin, declaring his passion to a lady of noble parentage. Her
haughty brother, as may be seen from his menacing attitude, is about to
avenge the insult offered to his family!]


THE PHOTOGRAPHS

[Illustration]

  To-day I was let sit up, tucked up in a quilt in a arm-chare. I soon
  got tired o’ that, so I ast Betty to get me a glass o’ ice-water to
  squench my thirst, an’ when she was gone I cut an’ run, an’ went into
  Susan’s room to look at all them fotografs of nice young men she’s got
  there in a drawer.

  The girls was all down in the parlour, ’cos Miss Watson had come to
  call. Betty she came a huntin’ me, but I hid in the closet behind a
  old hoop-skirt. I come out when she went away, and had a real good
  time. Some o’ them fotografs was written on the back, like this:
  “Conseated fop!” “Oh, ain’t he sweet?” “He ast me, but I wouldn’t have
  him.” “A perfect darling!” “What a mouth!” “Portrait of a donkey!”

  I kep about two dozen o’ them I knew, to have some fun when I got
  well. I shut the drawer so Sue wouldn’t notice they was took. I felt
  as if I could not bare to go back to that nasty room, I was so tired
  of it, an’ I thought I’d pass my time a playing I was a young lady. I
  found a lot o’ little curls in the buro, wich I stuck on all around my
  forehead with a bottle of mewsiledge, and then I seen some red stuff
  on a sawcer, wich I rubbed onto my cheaks. When I was all fixed up I
  slid down the bannisters plump against Miss Watson, wot was sayin’
  good-bye to my sisters. Such a hollerin’ as they made!

[Illustration: “Have you ever been photographed, Uncle?”

“Yes, Tommy.”

“What for?”]

[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF A DISTINGUISHED PHOTOGRAPHER,

Who has just succeeded in focussing a view to his complete
satisfaction.]

  Miss Watson she turned me to the light, an’ sez she, as sweet as pie:

  “Where did you get them pretty red cheeks, Geordie?”

  Susan she made a sign, but I didn’t know it.

  “I found some red stuff in Sue’s drawer,” sez I, and she smiled kind
  o’ hateful, and said:

  “Oh!”

  My sister says she is an awful gossip, which will tell all over town
  that they paint, wich they don’t, ’cause that sawcer was gust to make
  roses on card-bord, wich is all right.

  Sue was so mad she boxed my ears.

  “Aha, missy!” sez I to myself, “you don’t guess about them fotografs
  wot I took out o’ your drawer!”

  Some folks think little boys’ ears are made on purpose to be boxed--my
  sisters do. If they knew what dark and desperate thoughts come into
  little boys’ minds, they’d be more careful--it riles ’em up like
  pokin’ sticks into a mud puddel.

[Illustration: A PHOTOGRAPHIC PICTURE. (1853.)

OLD LADY (_who is not used to these new-fangled notions_). Oh, sir!
please, sir! don’t, sir! Don’t for goodness’ sake fire; sir!]

  I laid low--but beware to-morrow!

  They let me come down to breakfast this mornin’.

  I’ve got those pictures all in my pockets, you bet your life.

  “Wot makes your pockets stick out so?” ast Lily, when I was a waiting
  a chance to slip out unbeknone.

  “Oh, things,” sez I, an’ she laughed.

  “I thought mebbe you’d got your books and cloathes packed up in ’em,”
  sez she, “to run away an’ be a Injun warryor.”

  I didn’t let on anything, but ansered her:

  “I’ll just go out in the backyard an’ play a spell.”

  Well, I got to town, an’ had a lot of fun. I called on’ all the
  aboriginals of them fotografs.

  “Hello, Georgie! Well agen?” said the first feller I stopped to see.

  Oh, my! when I get big enuff I’ll hope my mustaches won’t be waxed
  like his’n! He’s in a store, an’ I got him to give me a nice cravat,
  an’ he ast me “Was my sisters well?” so I fished out his fotograf, and
  gave it to him.

  It was the one that had “Conseated Fop!” writ on the back. The girls
  had drawed his mustaches out twict as long with a pencil, an’ made him
  smile all acrost his face. He got as red as fire, an’ then he skowled
  at me:

  “Who did that, you little rascal!”

  “I should say the spirits did it,” I said, as onest as a owl, an’ I
  went away quick cause he looked mad.

  The nex plaice I come to was a grocery store, where a nuther young man
  lived. He had red hair an’ freckles, but he seemed to think hisself a
  beauty. I said:

  “Hello, Peters!”

  He said:

  “The same yourself, Master George. Do you like raisins? Help
  yourself.”

  Boys wot has three pretty sisters allers does get treted well, I
  notiss. I took a big hanful of raisins an’ sot on the counter eating
  ’em, till all at oncest, as if I jest thought of it, I took out his
  fotograf an’ squinted at it, an sez:

  “I do declare it looks like you.”

  “Let me see it,” sez he.

  I wouldn’t for a long time, then I gave it to him. The girls had made
  freckles all over it. This was the one they wrote on its back, “He
  asked me, but I wouldn’t have him.” They’d painted his hair as red as
  a rooster’s comb. He got quite pale when he seen it clost.

[Illustration: ENCOURAGEMENT OF ART.

FIRST CURLED AND POWDERED DARLING (_to photographer_). You’d better take
pains with these ’ere _carte de visites_, as they’ll be a good deal
shown about.

SECOND CURLED AND POWDERED DARLING (_on the sofa_). Yes--pertiklerly in
the hupper suckles. Get you customers, you know.]

  “It’s a burning shame,” sez I, “for them young ladies to make fun of
  their bows.”

  “Clear out,” sez Peters.

  I grabbed a nuther bunch o’ raisins an’ quietly disappeared. I tell
  you he was rathy!

  Mister Courtenay he was a lawyer, he’s got a offis on the square by
  the cort-house. I knew him very well, ’cause he comes to our house
  offen. He’s a awful queer-lookin’ chap, an’ so stuck up you’d think he
  was tryin’ to see if the moon was made o’ green cheese, like folks sez
  it is, the way he keeps it in the air. He’s got a depe, depe voice way
  down in his boots. My harte beat wen I got in there, I was that
  fritened; but I was bound to see the fun out, so I ast him:

  “Is the What is It on exabishun to-day?”

  “Wot do you mean?” sez he, a lookin’ down on me.

  “Sue said if I would come to Mister Courtenay’s offis I would see wot
  this is the picture of,” sez I, givin’ him his own fotograf inskribed,
  “The Wonderful What is It.”

  It’s awful funny to see their faces wen they look at their own cards.

  In about a minit he up with his foot, wich I dodged just in time. I
  herd him muttering suthin’ ’bout “suing for scandal.” I think myself I
  oughter arrest her for ’salt an’ battery, boxing my ears. I wisht he
  would sue Sue, ’twould serve her right.

  I’ll not get to bed fore midnight if I write enny more. I’m yawning
  now like a dying fish. So, farewell my diry till the next time. I give
  them cards all back fore dinner-time. There’ll be a row, I expect.
  I’ve laughed myself almost to fits a thinkin’ of the feller wot I give
  “The Portrait of a Donkey” to. He looked so cress fallen. I do
  believe he cried. They were teazin’ ma to let ’em give a party nex’
  week wen I got home to dinner. I don’t believe one of them young
  gentlemen will come to it; the girls have give ’em all away. I don’t
  care tuppence. Wot for do they take such libertys with my ears if they
  want me to be good to ’em.

  P.S.--I bet their left ears are burning wuss’n ever mine did!

[Illustration: ARTIST! (_photographic_). You’ve rather a florid
complexion, sir, but (_producing a flour dredger, to the old gentleman’s
horror_) if you’ll take a seat, we’ll obviate that immediately.]

[Illustration: ARTFUL!

Dodge of little Sperks, showing how parties below the middle height, by
the use of miniature background furniture, may gain a more imposing
stature in the _carte de visite_.]

[Illustration: SUBJECT FOR A PICTURE.

PHOTOGRAPHER. Now, sir! ’ave yer cart de visit done?]

[Illustration: PHOTOGRAPHIC BEAUTIES.

“I say, mister, here’s me and my mate wants our fotergruffs took; and
mind, we wants ’em ’ansom, cos they’re to give to two ladies.”]



_WANDERING MINSTRELS_


[Illustration: CHRISTMAS WAITS.]


MRS. BROWN AND THE GERMAN BAND

  Oh, I don’t think as I ever did ’ave sich a ’ead-ache as that arter
  we’d been to ’Ampton Court, as I do believe a-settin’ on the grass ’ad
  struck to me, and cold weal and ’am pie and cowcumber is wittles as
  along with lobster salad and red currant tart you did ought to be
  cautious ’ow you takes, and not ’urry thro’ it with all that
  confusion, and you don’t know what you are a-takin’. And young ’Awkins
  as were attentive to me kep’ a-fillin’ up my plate and glass every
  time as I turned my ’ead away a minit, as ’ave know’d ’im from a
  child, and what with the confusion at the train a-gettin’ back, I were
  that dizzy as I got into the wrong cab, as thro’ a mistake drove me
  werry near to Nottin’-’ill afore I could make the stupid feller
  understand as I wanted South Lambeth, and then to stand me out as I
  said Bayswater.

  It was past one in the mornin’ when I got ’ome, and ’ad to knock Brown
  up, as were that savage, and all his own fault thro’ not a-lookin’
  arter me at the Waterloo Station, thro’ ’avin’ got out at Wauxall, as
  is certingly nearest, thro’ bein’ not five minits from our door, yet
  ’ow was I to know as we’d got parted a-gettin’ into the train, and me
  that dead beat as to fall asleep the werry moment as I were in the
  train, and never opened my eyes till the man come for the ticket, and
  a nice trouble I ’ad to find mine and every one in the carriage
  a-goin’ on at me as is their larkin’ ways of a Sunday night.

  Well, as I said afore never did I ’ave sich a ’eadache, as were
  downright splittin’, and openin’ and a-shettin’ jest like water-works.
  I ’adn’t took no dinner, so was a-thinkin’ as I’d ’ave a early cup of
  tea, and was a-settin’ quiet in my front parlour with the blinds
  drawed down, a-thinkin’ as I might get a nap and be fresh for my tea.

[Illustration: THE DIVISION OF LABOUR.

How would it be if they changed instruments?]

  I’d put my feet up on the sofy, as isn’t a thing as I do one time in a
  thousand, and was a-droppin’ off, when of all the ’owlin’, gruntin’
  and squeakin’ noises as ever you ’eard it broke out in our street. I
  says, “they must be lunatics broke loose, a-makin’ free with them
  hinstruments, as wouldn’t never make that noise left to theirselves or
  used proper.”

  I gets up and goes to the winder, and I see about four of them German
  boys a-playin’ away on trombones, like mad, and one on ’em a-tryin’
  our gate.

  So I knocks at the winder, and shakes my ’ead at ’im, he opens the
  gate and comes in up to the winder as I opens, and says, “Go along. I
  don’t want no more of your noise.”

  He goes on with ’is gibberish rubbish, and I only says to ’im, “Get
  out!” and shets down the winder.

  Well, them young waggerbones kep’ on a-blowin’ and ’owlin’, like any
  one in tortures till I couldn’t stand it no longer, so I opens the
  winder ag’in, and ’olds up a jug of water, as the gal ’ad brought me
  up for the plants, a-making believe to throw it over ’em, when one of
  them ’Opwoods as lives next door, comes out and tells ’em to go on
  playin’ and give ’em money.

  The row as they kicked up, then, a-blowin’ right at me with them big
  ’orns of theirn did so aggravate me that I took and chucked all the
  water slap among ’em, and if one of them young wretches didn’t pick up
  a big stone and shiver a pane of glass in my front parlour in a
  jiffey.

[Illustration: CULTURE FOR THE MILLION; OR, SOCIETY AS IT MAY BE.

NEW CHAMBER OF HORRORS AT MADAME TUSSAUD’S. (_The right man in the right
place._) Don’t be afraid, you little goose! it’s only wax-work! Why, _I_
recollect when people like that were allowed to go loose about the
streets!]

  I couldn’t stand that, so ketches up the fust thing as come to, and as
  proved to be the ’arth broom as ’angs with the kittle ’older, and out
  of the ’ouse I rushes.

  Well, them boys took to their ’eels, when they see me comin’ out of
  the door, and run a little way, and then stopped and picked up stones
  and sent a reg’lar wolley at me.

  I ducked my ’ead in course, as they all went over right into old
  ’Opwood’s Green-’ouse, as he jest ’ad put up ag’in ’is parlour.

  I never ’eard sich a crash, nor yet sich a roar as old ’Opwood give
  like demented lions, and out he come on the doorstep, jest as them
  boys sent a second wolley of stones, and one ketched ’im slap in the
  mouth, and down he went like a dead un, and them young scoundrels was
  off like the dust afore the wind as the sayin’ is.

  If all them ’Opwoods didn’t come out on the doorstep, and give me
  their Billinsgate, for the old feller’s got two reg’lar brimstones of
  daughters, besides ’is old wife as is a reg’lar old dragon of Wantage.

  They all yells at me “’ow dare you set them boys on to destroy our
  property.”

  I says, “Me set the boys on? I was a-drivin’ them away with their
  beastly noise a-distractin’ any one, as you’ve been encouragin’.”

  “They was playin’ beautiful,” says one of them Miss ’Opwoods, “my
  favourite Waltz.”

  I says, “So I should think jest the music fit for you to dance to,”
  for she’s forty-five, and got a ’ump back, and as ugly as she’s
  wicious.

[Illustration: NOTHING LIKE ADVERTISING YOURSELF.]

  “Oh, you old cat,” she says to me, a-gnashin’ ’er teeth, “’ow I should
  like to tear your old wig off.”

  I says, “No doubt, for I’m sure you wants one bad enough.”

  “Come in Julia,” says the old mother. “Don’t talk to that low old
  woman.”

  “Yes,” I says, “Go in Julia, and ’elp your ma skin the cat.”

  Down the steps come the old woman, and says, “You audacious falsehood;
  I’ll punish you.”

  I’d got to my gate by that time. So I says to ’er, “Stand off you wile
  filthy old wretch, don’t dare cross my doorstep!” and ’olds up the
  ’arth broom at ’er.

  Her two daughters, a-seein’ me threatenin’ ’er come up, and says, “Ma,
  dear, come in.”

  “Yes,” I says, “Ma dear, do, or else the police may come by, and you
  may get give in charge ag’in as you was the week afore last,” for the
  old man ’ad been ’ad up for cruelty to animals twice.

  They was all a-goin’ to fly out when a bobby come round the corner,
  and as soon as they see ’im, they made faces at me, and was a-goin’
  off.

  I says, “Oh, pray don’t ’urry, here is the police.”

  I says to the perliceman, “’Ave you ’ad any one up lately hereabouts
  for cruelty to animals”; and in they goes and bangs their doors; and
  well they might, for that wicked old wretch had been destroyin’ of
  cats brutally, and they’d fined ’im for it; and I do believe as the
  old woman did use to skin cats, for she wore a fur tippet in the
  winter as was cats’ skins all over.

  But law, ’ow singler things do come ’ome to parties sometimes, to be
  sure; for it wasn’t but the next Sunday evenin’ arter, as I were alone
  in the ’ouse, and went out in the front jest to look at some stocks as
  Brown ’ad planted the night afore, when I thought as I ’eard groans
  from next door, as is ’Opwood’s.

[Illustration: SKETCH FROM A STUDY WINDOW.]

  I listens, and says to myself, “That’s some one in pain or I’m a
  Dutchman.” So I goes closer to their wall and ’ears them groans and
  smells burnin’.

  So knowin’ as somethink were wrong I ’urries to their door and knocks,
  but no one a-comin’, I says, “They’re all gone out,” and was a-goin’
  away, for I didn’t ’ear no more groans, but I smelt the burnin’; so I
  says, “No doubt I shall only get insults for my pains, but I’ll try
  and go in and see what’s amiss.” So I makes my way round to their back
  door, as were only on the latch, and in I goes, and the smell of
  burnin’ was downright sickenin’; I goes straight into the front
  kitchen, and there was old ’Opwood a-layin’ in the fender a-roastin’
  as ’ad fell out of ’is chair in a fit.

  I ’auls ’im up, and never did see sich a sight as one side of ’is face
  and all ’is neck and shoulder. The boy jest then come round with the
  eight o’clock beer, so I ’ollers to ’im to run for a doctor, and I got
  ’old ’Opwood some’ow into ’is chair, as was quite insensible.

  As luck would ’ave it, the doctor jest round the corner were at ’ome,
  and come at once, and we got the old man’s burns dressed, as I
  considers there’s nothink finer than whitin’, as the doctor agreed to.

  If you’d seen that old Mother ’Opwood’s face and ’er daughters, when
  they come in jest on ten and found me a-lookin’ arter that old man, as
  we’d got up on to a sofy in the front parlour.

  She begun to scream and holler at fust, and then said as I’d been and
  done it.

  I wasn’t the least put out with ’er, but only says to ’er daughters,
  “Keep ’er quiet”; which they did by draggin’ on ’er up-stairs, where
  they kep’ ’er, and I must say, as they spoke werry ’andsome to me, as
  stopped along with the old man till jest on twelve.

  I didn’t think as the old man would ’ave lived thro’ it, but he did,
  and ’ad his senses back, and able for to talk by the end of the week,
  and told us as he remembered a-pitchin’ forard ag’in the bars a-tryin’
  to get a light for ’is pipe.

  He never will be the same man as he were, but it’s been a lesson to
  ’im and to them, too, not to leave him alone, nor yet to be that
  insultin’ to a neighbour as they have been to me, a-doin’ everythink
  to annoy me, and turnin’ me into every redicule as the ’uman ’art can
  think on.

  But they’ll never encourage them orgins and bands as they did use to,
  and ’ave them inside their gardin’ to play when I’d sent them away,
  and no doubt we should get on better for the future to come, but I’m
  glad as we’re a-goin’ to move away, and all as I wants is to part
  friends, for as to livin’ friendly next door to them I never could.

  _Fun_, 1868.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]


STREET MUSICIANS

By OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.


    You’re sitting on your window seat
      Beneath a cloudless moon;
    You hear a sound that seems to wear
      The semblance of a tune,
    As if a broken fife should strive
      To drown a cracked bassoon.

    And nearer, nearer still, the tide
      Of music seems to come,
    There’s something like a human voice
      And something like a drum;
    You sit in speechless agony,
      Until your ear is numb.

    Poor “Home, Sweet Home” would seem to be
      A very dismal place;
    Your “Auld Acquaintance,” all at once,
      Is altered in the face;
    Their discords sting thro’ Burns and Moore,
      Like hedgehogs dressed in lace.

    You think they are crusaders sent
      From some infernal clime,
    To pluck the eyes of Sentiment
      And dock the tail of Rhyme,
    To crack the voice of Melody
      And break the legs of Time.

    But, hark! the air again is still,
      The music all is ground,
    And silence like a poultice comes
      To heal the blows of sound;
    It cannot be--it is, it is--
      A hat is going round!

    No! pay the dentist when he leaves
      A fracture in your jaw,
    And pay the owner of the bear
      That stunned you with his paw,
    And buy the lobster that has had
      Your knuckles in his claw.

    But if you are a portly man,
      Put on your fiercest frown,
    And talk about a constable
      To turn them out of town;
    Then close your sentence with an oath,
      Then shut the window down!

    And if you are a slender man,
      Not big enough for that,
    Or if you cannot make a speech
      Because you are a flat,
    Go very quietly and drop
      A button in the hat!



[Illustration: THROUGH THE OPERA GLASSES

THE OPERA.

BOX-KEEPER. Stalls 216 and 217. This way, ma’am; last row, ma’am.

Won’t you like a book, ma’am?]


THE BOHEMIAN GIRL

ADAPTED TO THE MEANEST CAPACITY


    Miss Rainforth, one day
      Having gone out to play,
    (Then a very young lady) was hurried,
    By a shocking fierce man,
    From a vagabond clan,
      Away to the green-room, quite flurried!

    This abduction, so free,
    Was lamented in D,
      With a pathos quite like Catalani,
    By her father, Arnheim,
    Who sung out in slow time;
      (Count Arnheim was play’d by Borrani).

    But, lo! after act one,
    Without help of the “sun,”
      Or (as Wordsworth has said) of the “shower,”
    This damsel so nice,
    With a very sweet voice,
      Grew twelve inches in less than an hour!

    And, having now seen,
    Summers full seventeen,
      Her heart could not wholly withstand
    The very soft “sawder”
    Of a dashing marauder
      Named Harrison--one of the band.

    So the maid, in reply,
    After heaving a sigh,
      Sang a song--now the darling of Fame,
    Which, if not quite grammatical,
    Was very poetical,
      That Harrison “lov’d her the same.”

    As we’ve all heard a few
    Of the stories so new
      About gipsies and children, I ween,
    I need scarcely relate,
    How a fortunate fate
      Gave Borrani again his Arline.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

    Suffice it to say,
    In a summary way,
      That a chain, round her neck which she wore,
    By a stern new policeman,
    Accustomed to seize men,
      Was carried a justice before:

    That she knew not the theft;
    That the chain was a gift
      From her supposititious mamma;
    And this damsel so nice,
    (With a very sweet voice)
      In the magistrate found her papa!

    We have then, a third act;
    A most curious fact;
      Which none understood, till they knew
    The author had thought,
    That in justice he ought
      A _moral_ to add to the two.

    So a lesson he gave
    (This poet so grave,)
      To singers and men; and the fall
    Of Miss Betts, at the end,
    By the hand of a friend,
      Was felt as the moral by all.

  _Punch_, 1844.

[Illustration]


“TURNED OUT”

At a Cosmopolitan Club they were discussing the relative position of
various countries as musical centres. Germany seemed to have the most
votaries, much to the evident displeasure of one excitable Italian.
“Italy is turning out the most musicians, and has always turned out the
most,” he cried.

“Ach Gott!” exclaimed one of the Germans. “Can you blame her?”

[Illustration: WHAT INDEED?

DOOR-KEEPER. Beg your pardon, sir--but you must, indeed, sir, be in full
dress!

SNOB (_excited_). Full dress!! Why, what do yer call this?]

[Illustration: “FRENCH WITHOUT A MASTER.”

MATRON IN STALLS (_reads from programme_). “Overture to L’Ongfong
Prod-eeg.” What does that mean? The prodigious child, eh?

ACCOMPLISHED DAUGHTER (_shocked_). Mamma, dear! No--“L’Enfant
Prodigue”--it means the infant prodigy!!]

[Illustration]


RECOLLECTIONS OF THE OPERA

BY W. M. THACKERAY.

    I’ve known a god on clouds of gauze
    With patience hear a people’s prayer,
    And, bending to the pit’s applause,
    Wait while the priest repeats the air.

    I’ve seen a black-wigg’d Jove hurl down
    A thunderbolt along a wire,
    To burn some distant canvas town,
    Which--how vexatious!--won’t catch fire.

    I’ve known a tyrant doom a maid
    (With trills and _roulades_ many a score)
    To instant death. She, sore afraid,
    Sings; and the audience cries encore.

    I’ve seen two warriors in a rage
    Draw glist’ning swords, and--awful sight!--
    Meet face to face upon the stage
    To sing a song, but not to fight!

    I’ve heard a king exclaim “To arms”
    Some twenty times, yet still remain;
    I’ve known his army ’midst alarms,
    Help by a bass their monarch’s strain.

    I’ve known a hero wounded sore
    With well-tuned voice his foes defy;
    And warbling stoutly on the floor,
    With the last flourish fall and die.

    I’ve seen a mermaid dress’d in blue;
    I’ve seen a Cupid burn a wing;
    I’ve known a Neptune lose a shoe;
    I’ve heard a guilty spectre sing.

    I’ve seen, spectators of a dance,
    Two Brahmins, Mahomet, the Cid,
    Four Pagan kings, four knights of France,
    Jove and the Muses--scene Madrid.

  _Punch_, 1843.

[Illustration: WE DON’T SING ENOUGH.

Sailors sing at their work. Why don’t clerks, lawyers, doctors, brokers,
and shopkeepers? It would add to the variety of life.]

[Illustration: THE HIGH NOTE.]

[Illustration: THE LOW NOTE.]


A WOMAN’S THOUGHTS ABOUT WOMEN

    I think Miss Juliet in the play
      A forward little minx
    (And Mrs. Grundy likes to say
      What Mrs. Grundy thinks).
    Her conduct with R. Montague
      Seems perfectly absurd,
    Such bold and brazen language, too,
      I think I never heard.

    I think Othello led a tame
      And wretched kind of life,
    With Desdemona What’s-her-name--
      His namby-pamby wife.
    To run away--at such an age--
      And with a negro, too!
    Such conduct even on the stage,
      I think I never knew.

    I think that, as to Beatrice,
      Her husband was a flat
    For looking for a life of peace
      With such a wife as _that_.
    Her conduct wasn’t over strict
      For all her length of jaw;
    And such a muff as Benedict
      I think I never saw.

    I think, when Portia’s lovers came
      And played at pitch and toss,
    The gentleman who won that dame
      Contrived to gain a loss.
    I think Emilia was a shrew,
      And Rosalind ill-bred;
    (But “As you Like It,” _entre nous_,
      I think I never read).

    I think Macbeth was led astray
      By wicked Lady M.
    And those three witches. By the way,
      I don’t think much of _them_.
    I think Ophelia--that’s a fact--
      The best of all the set;
    But anybody quite so crack’d
      I think I never met.

  _Fun_, 1865.

[Illustration: BROWN (_thinking of her age_). Perfect voice that girl
has--she’s only twenty-two.

JONES (_thinking otherwise_). Twenty-two what--stone?]

[Illustration: CULTURE FOR THE MILLION; OR, SOCIETY AS IT MAY BE.

HIGH ART BELOW STAIRS.--COOK. Sh--sh--! _Moderato_, Susan! _Affettuoso_,
Jim! _Ben marcato il basso_, Mr. Raffles! _Bravi tutti! Da capo!_]

[Illustration: GENTLE REBUKE.

OLD GENTLEMAN. How charmingly that young lady sings! Pray, who composed
the beautiful song she has just favoured us with?

LADY OF THE HOUSE. Oh, it is by Mendelssohn.

OLD GENTLEMAN. Ah! One of his famous “Songs without Words,” I suppose.

  (MORAL.--_Young ladies, when you sing, pronounce your words carefully,
  and then you will not expose unmusical old gentlemen to making such a
  ridiculous mistake as the above._)]


THE ONION GIRL

(AFTER TENNYSON’S “LADY OF SHALOTTE.”)


PART I.

    On either side of Market-street
    Small stalls of vegetables meet
    Domestic eyes; and voices sweet
    And voices hoarse their hearing greet
          With cries of “Buy my fine shalots!”
    And up and down the million goes;
    Gazing where, in varied rows,
    Green stuff lies, and each nose knows
          The odour of shalots.

    Widows cheapen, urchins chatter,
    Little vagrants make much clatter;
    Vulgar boys cry, “_Who’s your hatter?_”
    And this time, the night of Satur-
          Day’s the joy of all the sots.
    Bright blue eyes, lips like the cherry,
    Rosy cheeks, that ringlets bury,
    Had an Irish girl, from Derry,
          A girl who sold shalots!

    To the market, peas and beans
    Heavy lumbering machines
    Bring thrice a week, also greens;
    And ’tis prime fun to watch the scenes
          At the biddings for the lots.
    But who hath seen _her_ buy her stock
    Of onions, or white-headed broc-
    Oli, before four of the clock,
          That girl who sells shalots?

    Only peelers, walking early
    (One there is a great, big, burly
    Fellow, who is always surly,
    And wouldn’t even let a cur lie
          Down in shelter’d corner spots);
    Or, by the dawn, some loose young city
    Clerk, home reeling, hears the ditty
    She oft sings--says “_’Tis that pretty
          Girl who sells shalots!_”


THE ONION GIRL


PART II.

(_A change comes o’er the spirit of the O.G._)

    Now she flaunts by night or day,
    In gorgeous dress and ribbons gay:
    Conscience often whispers “nay!”
    But love of finery cries “_yea_.”
          Calling conscience “horrid rot!”
    She knows not what the end may be,
    And so she hath a “jolly spree,”
    But little other care hath she--
          That girl who sold shalot!

    And now, before a mirror clear,
    She learns each wily glance and leer;
    Then puts an earring in each ear,
    And donning some fast, flashy gear,
          Starts for some den that London blots.
    There the vicious eddy whirls;
    And there is vice in gold and pearls;
    And there are jewelled, wretched girls,
          Who’d scorn to sell shalots!

    Sometimes a troop of swells--drunk--mad
    (Who’d call a sober man a cad)--
    Bring in a very verdant lad,
    And teach him everything that’s bad,
          And stain his soul with cank’ring spots.
    And there she sits, with eyes so blue,
    Loudly and lightly chatted to;
    Oh! she was brighter, _happier too_,
          When she cried, “Fine shalots!”

    For she must suffer many slights--
    May never more know home’s delights--
    Can scarcely claim a woman’s rights;
    Must writhe beneath the scorn that blights
          Such cheerless, weary, dreary lots;
    And dies, at last, by some road-side;
    Or, urged by sin’s despairing pride,
    _She sinks beneath the murky tide--
          That girl who sold shalots!_

  _Fun_, 1864.

[Illustration]


END OF VOLUME VIII.

  Butler & Tanner, Frome and London.



Transcription of texts inside illustrations


Page 24.

    I cannot tell, what you and other men
    Think of this life; but, for my single self,
    I had as lief not be, as live to be
    In ~awe~ of such a ~thing~ as I myself.


Page 25.

  OWING TO A SPRAINED ANKLE, AN ACTRESS PLAYED CARMEN IN A BATH CHAIR

  SIGNOR BELLOWNI HAD A SORE THROAT THE OTHER NIGHT, BUT HE PLUCKILY
  WENT THROUGH HIS PART WITH THE AID OF A MACHINE

  ARE YOU RIGHT SIR?

  ALTHOUGH SUFFERING FROM A SEVERE ATTACK OF GOUT, M^{R} BUSKIN PLAYED
  ROMEO MANFULLY

  AITCHOO!

  INFLUENZA DID NOT PREVENT M^{R} YELLOWCHEEK FROM GOING THROUGH HIS
  FAVOURITE PART OF HAMLET LAST NIGHT

  SIGNOR SQUALLO HAS BEEN CONFINED TO HIS BED WITH PNEUMONIA, BUT WE ARE
  GLAD TO SAY HE WAS ABLE TO MAKE A VERY SUCCESSFUL APPEARANCE AS
  MEPHISTOPHELES

  SUCCESS ATTENDED SIGNOR TOPNOTO’S IMPERSONATION OF TRISTAN, THOUGH HE
  WAS NURSING A BAD COLD IN THE HEAD.


Page 27.

  “HOORAY!” “SPLENDID!” “BRAVO!”

  STEALS SOMEONE ELSE’S GIRL

  “WELL DONE!” “I HOPE HE WON’T BE FOUND OUT!” “HOW DARING HE IS!”

  STEALS HER FATHER’S PICTURES

  “GOOD!” “ISN’T HE A SPORTSMAN!” “WHAT A SPLENDID FELLOW!”

  STEALS HER TIARA

  “FINE!” “I HOPE HE’LL ESCAPE!” “HOW NOBLE!”

  ESCAPES FROM POLICE IN A MOTOR CAR


Page 31.

  THE LIGHTING OF THE HOUSE IS SURE TO RECEIVE ATTENTION

  MR BUSKIN M.P. HURRIES TO THE HOUSE AFTER A MATINÉE TO VOTE FOR HIS
  PARTY

  “DISGRACEFUL COSTUME” “OUGHT NOT TO BE ALLOWED!” “LOWERS THE DIGNITY
  OF THE HOUSE!”

  DIGNIFIED EXIT OF M^{R} GARRICK-KEAN M.P. AFTER AN UNSUCCESSFUL
  ATTEMPT TO ENGAGE THE ATTENTION OF THE HOUSE.

  “CHAIR” “BOO” “ORDER”

  “NO MATTER-R-R! A TIME WILL COME!”

  “WHERE’S THE PROMPTER?”

  A MAIDEN SPEECH

  “HA! HA!” “HA! HA!” “HA! HA!”

  EFFECT OF A LOW COMEDIAN ON THE HOUSE


Page 32.

  WE SHALL SOON SEE ACTORS WEARING MASKS OUT OF DOORS

  THE ACTOR-MANAGER WILL REFUSE LIMELIGHT

  “THIS PART OF THE STAGE WILL DO FOR ME”

  THIS WILL BE A QUITE USUAL OCCURRENCE ON FIRST NIGHTS

  “M^{R} GARRICK-KEAN IS NO LONGER IN THE HOUSE!”

  THE GENERAL APPEARANCE OF THE ACTOR WILL CHANGE FROM THIS-- TO THIS--

  THIS MAY POSSIBLY HAPPEN

  “NO, I’VE TAKEN ONE CALL, LET SOMEONE ELSE GO FORWARD NOW!”


Page 35.

  “BE OFF, OR I’LL CALL IN THE POLICE!”

  “WHAT CHEEK!”

  “WANTS TO BUY A SEAT!”

  “WHAT IMPUDENCE!”

  WHEN BUSINESS IS GOOD

  “LET ME TAKE YOUR COAT, SIR!”

  “DO TAKE A PROGRAMME, SIR!”

  “ANY SEAT YOU LIKE, SIR!”

  “COME IN MY DEAR SIR. DON’T GO AWAY!”

  WHEN BUSINESS IS BAD


Page 39.

  “COME AND LUNCH WITH ME AT THE ACTORS’ CLUB”

  “HULLO, OLD MAN, SEEN ME IN MY NEW PART? BIGGEST SUCCESS OF MODERN
  TIMES!”

  “HULLO, DEAR BOY, SEEN MY ROMEO? FINEST EVER KNOWN--BRINGS THE HOUSE
  DOWN EVERY NIGHT!”

  “I TELL YOU, OLD BOY, MY SHOW IS THE FUNNIEST IN LONDON. I’M SIMPLY
  GREAT IN IT!”

  “SMITH’S HAMLET ISN’T IN IT WITH MINE!”

  “COME AND LUNCH WITH ME AT THE ACTORS’ CLUB”


Page 56.

  IT IS A STRANGE IDIOSYNCRACY OF CERTAIN THEATRE-GOERS THAT THEY WILL
  HUSTLE AND PUSH AND FIGHT TO LEAVE THEIR SEATS BEFORE THE CURTAIN GOES
  DOWN--

  --IN ORDER TO STAND AT THE ENTRANCE AND PREVENT OTHERS FROM LEAVING
  THE THEATRE


Page 57.

  CALL BOY
  CHARWOMAN
  SUPERS
  STAGE CARPENTER
  SCENE SHIFTERS
  BOOT MAKER
  TAILOR
  UPHOLSTERER
  WIG MAKER
  LIMELIGHT MAN
  PROMPTER
  GAS FITTER
  TROMBONE


Page 116 top.

  LITERATURE: we shall all be run down & devoured!!--there won’t be a
  bit of us left for succedding ages!--the dogs nowadays have got such
  large Capacities!!

  Left hand baby: FIRST STEPS TO LEARNING

  Right hand baby: READING MADE EASY


Page 116 bottom.

  Flag: We are the boys

  Book title: NEW HORN BOOK EVERY MAN his own TRUMPETER.


Page 118.

  Girl: You see Gran Ma, before you suct this Egg, or, more properly
  speaking before you extract the matter contained within this shell by
  suction, you must make an incision at the Apex & a Corresponding
  aperture at the base.

  Grandma: Aye, Dear--How very clever!!--they only used to make a hole
  at each end in my time--Well I declare they are making improvments in
  everything.

  Book: WHO KILLED COCK ROBIN

  Books in toy basket: amongst others THEOLOGY, SHAKESPEARE, EUCLID,
  BOYLE, BENTLEY, MILTON, HUME


Page 178.

  Now mind, you are to make me appear as usgly as you can--aye--you may
  stare!--but you must know that I am the only one that dislikes
  flattery. In fact, I want every-body to laugh at me--so the more
  ridiculous you make methe better I shall like it

  It’s an odd request! But I’ll do my best


Page 190 top.

  WAITING FOR A SEAT

  THE FIGHT ROUND THE TEA ROOM

  Charming!
  How nice
  How pretty!
  Quite nice

  TRYING TO GET A GLIMPSE OF THE PICTURES

  OH MY HEAD! GOING

  HOME

  NEXT DAY


Page 249.

  Pa. By Bobby
  Ma. By Bobby
  Grandpa. By Bobby
  Sister. By Bobby


Page 287.

  ♫ SING HO! FOR THE LIFE OF A CLERK ♫
  ♫ TRA-LA ♫

  ♫ WE ARE BARRISTERS BOLD AND FREE ♫
  ♫ YES BOLD AND FREE ♫
  ♫ WHO SO FREE IN THE LAND! ♫

  ♫ WE’VE GOT NO WORK TO DO-O ♫
  ♫ OH A LIFE ON THE STOCK EXCHANGE ♫

  ♫ THE LIFE OF A TYPIST IS GAY ♫
  ♫ TRA-LA-LA! ♫

  ♫ MERRY SHOP GIRLS ARE WE ♫
  I SAID HANDKERCHIEFS

  ♫ YO-HO! YO-O HO! ♫
  ♫ NOW WHO’S FOR THE BA-ANK! ♫



Transcriber’s Notes


  Depending on the hard- and software used, not all elements may display
  as intended.

  Inconsistencies and unusual spelling have been retained.

  The transcriptions of the texts inside illustrations have been made
  for this e-text.

  Some missing and incorrect punctuation has been added or corrected
  silently, as have been some obvious printer’s errors.

  On page 74/75, 176/177 and 252/253 references to the illustrations and
  captions on the opposite page have been deleted.

  Page 84: ... the muffs who loat ... has been changed to ... the muffs
  who gloat ....





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