SCENE II.--Enter policeman.
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THE QUICK GRUB STREET CO.
THE QUICK GRUB STREET CO. BEG TO ANNOUNCE THAT THEY HAVE OPENED AN ESTABLISHMENT FOR THE SUPPLY OF LITERATURE IN ALL ITS BRANCHES.
_Every Editor should send for our Prices and compare them with those of other houses._
POETRY DEPARTMENT.
We employ experienced poets for the supply of garden verses, war songs, &c., and undertake to fill any order within twenty-four hours of its reaching us. Our Mr. Rhymeesi will be glad to wait upon parties requiring verse of any description, and, if the matter is at all urgent, to execute the order on the spot.
DRAMA DEPARTMENT.
Actor-managers before going elsewhere should give us a call. Our plays draw wherever they are presented, even if it is only bricks.
_Testimonial._--A manager writes: "The play you kindly supplied, _The Blue Bloodhound of Bletchley_, is universally admitted to be _unlike anything ever before produced on the stage_."
Musical comedies (guaranteed absolutely free from plot) supplied on shortest notice.
FICTION DEPARTMENT.
For society dialogues we use the very best duchesses; while a first-class earl's daughter is retained for Court and gala opera.
For our new line of _vie intime_ we employ none but valets and confidential maids, who have to serve an apprenticeship with P.A.P.
THE KAILYARD DEPARTMENT
is always up-to-date, and our Mr. Stickit will be pleased to call on any editor on receipt of post-card.
N.B.--We guarantee our Scotch Idyll to be absolutely unintelligible to any English reader, and undertake to refund money if it can be proved that such is not the case.
Our speciality, however, is our _Six-Shilling Shocker_, as sold for serial purposes. Editors with papers that won't "go" should ask for one of these. When ordering please state general idea required under one of our recognised sections, as foreign office, police, mounted infantry, cowardice, Rome, &c., &c.
BIOGRAPHY.
Any gentleman wishing to have a biography of himself produced in anticipation of his decease should communicate with us.
The work would, of course, be published with a note to the effect that the writing had been a labour of love; that moreover the subject with his usual modesty had been averse from the idea of a biography.
_Testimonial._--Sir Sunny Jameson writes: "The Life gives great satisfaction. No reference made, however, to my munificent gift of L50 to the Referees' Hospital. This should be remedied in the next edition. The work, however, has been excellently done. You have made me out to be better than even I ever thought myself."
For love letters,
For the Elizabethan vogue,
For every description of garden meditations,
Give the Quick Grub Street Company a trial.
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NONSENSE PROVERBS
WHAT'S in the pot mustn't be told to the pan.
There's a mouth for every muffin.
A clear soup and no flavour.
As drunk as a daisy.
All rind and no cheese.
Set a beggar on horseback, and he will cheat the livery-stable keeper.
There's a B in every bonnet.
Two-and-six of one and half-a-crown of the other.
The insurance officer dreads a fire.
First catch your heir, then hook him.
Every plum has its pudding.
Short pipes make long smokes.
It's a long lane that has no blackberries.
Wind and weather come together.
A flower in the button-hole is worth two on the bush.
Round robin is a shy bird.
There's a shiny lining to every hat.
The longest dinner will come to an end.
You must take the pips with the orange.
It's a wise dentist that knows his own teeth.
No rose without a gardener.
Better to marry in May than not to marry at all.
Save sovereigns, spend guineas.
Too many followers spoil the cook. (N.B. This is _not_ nonsense.)
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SAID AT THE ACADEMY.--_Punch_ doesn't care _who_ said it. It was extremely rude to call the commission on capital punishments the hanging committee.
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THE GRAMMAR OF ART.--"Art," spell it with a big or little "a," can never come first in any well-educated person's ideas. "I am" must have the place of honour; then "Thou Art!" so apostrophised, comes next.
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ARTIST'S VADE MECUM
_Question._ Has the anxious parent been to see his child's portrait?
_Answer._ He has seen it.
_Q._ Did he approve of it?
_A._ He will like it better when I have made some slight alterations.
_Q._ What are they?
_A._ He would like the attitude of the figure altered, the position of the arms changed, the face turned the other way, the hair and eyes made a different colour, and the expression of the mouth improved.
_Q._ Did he make any other suggestions?
_A._ Yes; he wishes to have the child's favourite pony and Newfoundland dog put in, with an indication of the ancestral home in the back-ground.
_Q._ Is he willing to pay anything extra for these additions?
_A._ He does not consider it necessary.
_Q._ Are you well on with your Academy picture?
_A._ No; but I began the charcoal sketch yesterday.
_Q._ Have you secured the handsome model?
_A._ No; the handsome model has been permanently engaged by the eminent R.A.
_Q._ Under these circumstances, do you still expect to get finished in time?
_A._ Yes; I have been at this stage in February for as many years as I can remember, and have generally managed to worry through somehow.
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WHENEVER the "Reduced Prizefighters" take a benefit at a theatre, the play should be _The Miller and his Men_.
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A NICE MAN.--Mr. Swiggins was a sot. He was also a sloven. He never had anything neat about him but gin.
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"HUNG, DRAWN, AND QUARTERED."--(_Mr. Punch's sentence on three-fourths of the Academicians' work "on the line."_)--Very well "hung"; very ill "drawn"; a great deal better "quartered" than it deserves.
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THE SPIRIT OF THE AGE.--Gin.
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THE SUB-EDITOR'S AUNT
"I always buy your paper my dear Horace," said the old lady, "although there is much in it I cannot approve of. But there is one thing that puzzles me extremely."
"Yes, aunt?" said the Sub-Editor meekly, as he sipped his tea.
"Why, I notice that the contents bill invariably has one word calculated to stimulate the morbid curiosity of the reader. An adjective."
"Circulation depends upon adjectives," said the Sub-Editor.
"I don't think I object to them," the old lady replied; "but what I want you to tell me is how you choose them. How do you decide whether an occurrence is 'remarkable' or 'extraordinary,' 'astounding' or 'exciting,' 'thrilling' or 'alarming,' 'sensational' or merely 'strange,' 'startling' or 'unique'? What tells you which word to use?"
"Well, aunt, we have a system to indicate the adjective to a nicety; but----"
"My dear Horace, I will never breathe a word. You should know that. No one holds the secrets of the press more sacred than I."
The Sub-Editor settled himself more comfortably in his chair.
"You see, aunt, the great thing in an evening paper is human interest. What we want to get is news to hit the man-in-the-street. Everything that we do is done for the man-in-the-street. And therefore we keep safely locked up in a little room a tame man of this description. He may not be much to look at, but his sympathies are right, unerringly right. He sits there from nine till six, and has things to eat now and then. We call him the Thrillometer."
"How wonderful! How proud you should be Horace, to be a part of this mighty mechanism, the press."
"I am, aunt. Well, the duties of the Thrillometer are very simple. Directly a piece of news comes in, it is the place of one of the Sub-Editors to hurry to the Thrillometer's room and read it to him. I have to do this."
"Poor boy. You are sadly overworked, I fear."
"Yes, aunt. And while I read I watch his face."
"Long study has told me exactly what degree of interest is excited within him by the announcement. I know instantly whether his expression means 'phenomenal' or only 'remarkable,' whether 'distressing' or only 'sad,' whether----"
"Is there so much difference between 'distressing' and 'sad,' Horace?"
"Oh, yes, aunt. A suicide in Half Moon Street is 'distressing'; in the City Road it is only 'sad.' Again, a raid on a club in Whitechapel is of no account; but a raid on a West-End club is worth three lines of large type in the bill, above Fry's innings."
"Do you mean a club in Soho when you say West-End?"
"Yes, aunt, as a rule."
"But why do you call that the West-End?"
"That was the Thrillometer's doing, aunt. He fell asleep over a club raid, and a very good one too, when I said it was in Soho; but when I told him of the next--also in Soho, chiefly Italian waiters--and said it was in the West-End, his eyes nearly came out of his head. So you see how useful the Thrillometer can be."
"Most ingenious, Horace. Was this your idea?"
"Yes, aunt."
"Clever boy. And have the other papers adopted it?"
"Yes, aunt. All of them."
"Then you are growing rich, Horace?"
"No, no, aunt, not at all. Unfortunately I lack the business instinct. Other people grow rich on my ideas. In fact, so far from being rich, I was going to venture to ask you----"
"Tell me more about the Thrillometer," said the old lady briskly.
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GOING TO THE BAD
All the way from the National Gallery Unto the Royal Academy As I walked, I was guilty of raillery, Which I felt was very bad o' me.
Thinking of art's disasters, Still sinking to deeper abysses, I said, "From the Old Masters Why go to the new misses?"
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THE TRUE INWARDNESS OF ART.--Photographs by the Roentgen rays.
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MAN WHO HAS A TURN FOR MUSIC.--An organ-grinder.
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HOW TO BE AN AUTHOR
Mr. Punch, having read the latest book on the way to write for the press, feels that there is at least one important subject not properly explained therein: to wit, the covering letter. He therefore proceeds to supplement this and similar books.... It is, however, when your story is written that the difficulties begin. Having selected a suitable editor, you send him your contribution accompanied by a covering letter. The writing of this letter is the most important part of the whole business. One story, after all, is very much like another (in your case, probably, exactly like another), but you can at least in your covering letter show that you are a person of originality.
Your letter must be one of three kinds: pleading, peremptory, or corruptive. I proceed to give examples of each.
I.--THE PLEADING LETTER.
199, _Berkeley Square, W._
DEAR MR. EDITOR,--I have a wife and seven starving children; can you possibly help us by accepting this little story of only 18,000 (eighteen thousand) words? Not only would you be doing a work of charity to one who has suffered much, but you would also, I venture to say, be conferring a real benefit upon English literature--as I have already received the thanks of no fewer than thirty-three editors for having allowed them to peruse this manuscript.
Yours humbly,
THE McHARDY.
P.S.--My youngest boy, aged three, pointed to his little sister's Gazeka toy last night and cried "De editor!" These are literally the first words that have passed his lips for three days. Can you stand by and see the children starve?
II.--THE PEREMPTORY LETTER.
SIR,--Kindly publish at once and oblige.
Yours faithfully,
EUGENE HACKENKICK.
P.S.--I shall be round at your office to-morrow about an advertisement for some 600 lb. bar-bells, and will look you up.
III.--THE CORRUPTIVE LETTER.
_Middlesex House, Park Lane, IV._
DEAR MR. SMITH,--Can you come and dine with us quite in a _friendly_ way on Thursday at eight? I want to introduce you to the Princess of Holdwig-Schlosstein and Mr. Alfred Austin, who are so eager to meet you. Do you know I am really a little _frightened_ at the thought of meeting such a famous editor? Isn't it _silly_ of me?
Yours very sincerely,
EMMA MIDDLESEX.
P.S.--I wonder if you could find room in your _splendid little paper_ for a silly story I am sending you. It would be such a surprise for the Duke's birthday (on Monday).--E. M.
Before concluding the question of the covering letter I must mention the sad case of my friend Halibut. Halibut had a series of lithographed letters of all kinds, one of which he would enclose with every story he sent out. On a certain occasion he wrote a problem story of the most advanced kind; what, in fact, the reviewers call a "strong" story. In sending this to the editor of a famous magazine his secretary carelessly slipped in the wrong letter:
"DEAR MR. EDITOR," it ran, "I am trying to rite you a littel story, I do hope you will like my little storey, I want to tell you about my kanary and my pussy cat, it's name is _Peggy_ and it has seven kitens, have you any kitens, I will give you one if you print my story,
"Your loving little friend,
"FLOSSIE."
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PROVERB FOR THE COUNCIL OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY.--"Hanging goes by favour."
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THE ENRAGED MUSICIAN.--(_A Duologue._)
_Composer._ Did you stay late at Lady Tittup's?
_Friend._ Yes. Heard Miss Bang play again. I was delighted with her execution.
_Composer._ Her execution! _That_ would have pleased _me_; she deserved it for having brutally murdered a piece of mine. [_Exeunt._
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THE GENTILITY OF SPEECH.--At the music halls visitors now call for "another acrobat," when they want a second tumbler.
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AN ARTISTIC EPISODE
["Incapacity for work has come to be accepted as the hall-mark of genius.... The collector wants only the thing that is rare, and therefore the artist must make his work as rare as he can."--_Daily Chronicle._]
Josephine found me stretched full length in a hammock in the garden.
"Why aren't you at work?" she asked; "not feeling seedy, I hope?"
"Never better," said I. "But I've been making myself too cheap."
"We couldn't possibly help going to the Joneses last night, dear."
"Tush," said I. "I mean there is too much of me."
"I don't quite understand," she said; "but there certainly will be if you spend your mornings lolling in that hammock."
The distortive wantonness of this remark left me cold.
"I have made up my mind," I continued, quite seriously, "to do no more work for a considerable time."
"But, my dear boy, just think----"
"I'm going to make myself scarce," I insisted.
"Geoffrey!" she exclaimed, "I knew you weren't well!"
I released myself.
"Josephine," I said solemnly, "those estimable persons who collect my pictures will think nothing of them if they become too common."
"How do you know there are such persons?" she queried.
"I must decline to answer that question," I replied; "but if there are none it is because my work is not yet sufficiently rare and precious. I propose to work no more--say, for six or seven years. By that time my reputation will be made, and there will be the fiercest competition for the smallest canvas I condescend to sign."
She kissed me.
"I came out for the housekeeping-money," she remarked simply.
I went into the house to fetch the required sum, and, by some means I cannot explain, got to work again upon the latest potboiler.
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MUSIC READILY ACQUIRED.--Stealing a march.
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IN A MINOR KEY.--_Hearty Friend_ (_meeting Operatic Composer_). Hallo, old man, how are you? Haven't seen you for an age! What's your latest composition?
_Impecunious Musician_ (_gloomily_). With my creditors. [_Exeunt severally._
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TO BE SUNG AT CONCERT PITCH.--"The Tar's Farewell."
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CONSOLATIONS FOR THE UNHUNG
Now that the painful month of suspense in Studioland is at an end, it behoves us to apply our most soothing embrocation to the wounded feelings of geniuses whose works have boomeranged their way back from Burlington House. Let them remember:
That very few people really look at the pictures in the Academy--they only go to meet their friends, or to say they have been there.
That those who _do_ examine the works of art are wont to disparage the same by way of showing their superior smartness.
That one picture has no chance of recognition with fourteen hundred others shouting at it.
That all the best pavement-artists now give "one-man" shows. They can thus select their own "pitch," and are never ruthlessly skied.
That photography in colours is coming, and then the R.A. will have to go.
That Rembrandt, Holbein, Rubens and Vandyck were never hung at the summer exhibition.
That Botticelli, Correggio and Titian managed to rub along without that privilege.
That the ten-guinea frame that was bought (or owed for) this spring will do splendidly next year for another masterpiece.
That the painter _must_ have specimens of his best work to decorate the somewhat bare walls of his studio.
That the best test of a picture is being able to live with it--or live it down--so why send it away from its most lenient critic?
That probably the _chef-d'oeuvre_ sent in was shown to the hanging committee up-side down.
That, supposing they saw it properly, they were afraid that its success would put the Academy to the expense of having a railing placed in front.
And finally, we would remind the rejected one that, after all, his bantling _has_ been exhibited in the R.A.--to the president and his colleagues engaged in the work of selection. Somebody at least looked at it for quite three seconds.
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ART NOTE.--_The early Italian style._--An organ-grinder at five o'clock in the morning.
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THE MIGHTY PEN
["With this little instrument that rests so lightly in the hand, whole nations can be moved.... When it is poised between thumb and finger, it becomes a living thing--it moves with the pulsations of the living heart and thinking brain, and writes down, almost unconsciously, the thoughts that live--the words that burn.... It would be difficult to find a single newspaper or magazine to which we could turn for a lesson in pure and elegant English."--_Miss Corelli in_ "_Free Opinions Freely Expressed_."]
O magic pen, what wonders lie Within your little length! Though small and paltry to the eye You boast a giant's strength. Between my finger and my thumb A living creature you become, And to the listening world you give "The words that burn--the thoughts that live."
Oft, when the sacred fire glows hot, Your wizard power is proved: You write till lunch, and nations not Infrequently are moved; 'Twixt lunch and tea perhaps you damn For good and all, some social sham, And by the time I pause to sup-- Behold Carnegie crumpled up!
Through your unconscious eyes I see Strange beauty, little pen! You make life exquisite to me, If not to other men. You fill me with an inward joy No outward trouble can destroy, Not even when I struggle through Some foolish ignorant review;
Nor when the press bad grammar scrawls In wild uncultured haste, And which intolerably galls One's literary taste. What are the editors about, Whom one would think would edit out The shocking English and the style Which every page and line defile?
There is, alas! no magazine, No paper that one knows To which a man could turn for clean And graceful English prose; Not even, O my pen, though you Yourself may write for one or two, And lend to them a style, a tone, A grammar that is all your own.
I see the shadows of decay On all sides darkly loom; Massage and manicure hold sway, Cosmetics fairly boom; Old dowagers and budding maids Alike affect complexion-aids, While middle age with anxious care Dyes to restore its dwindling hair.
The time is out of joint, but still I am not hopeless quite So long as you exist, my quill, Once more to set it right. Woman will cease from rouge, I think, Man pour his hair-wash down the sink, If you will yet consent to give "The words that burn--the thoughts that live."
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A HINT FOR THE PUBLISHERS.
As the publishing season will soon be in full play--which means that there will be plenty of work--we suggest the following as titles of books, to succeed the publication of "People I have Met," by an American:--
People I have taken into Custody, by a Policeman.
People that have Met me Half-way, by an Insolvent.
People I have Splashed, by a Scavenger.
People I have Done, by a Jew Bill-discounter.
People I have Abused, by a 'Bus Conductor.
People I have Run Over, by a Butcher's Boy.
People I have Run Against, by a Sweep.
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A ROARING TRADE.--Keeping a menagerie.
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_Penink._ "Oh, my wife always sits for me!"
_Mrs. Mudge_ (_with great surprise_). "You don't say so! Well, I think you're one of the _cleverest_ men I know!" [_Mrs. Penink's opinion of Mrs. Mudge falls below zero._]
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MUSICAL FACT.--People are apt to complain of the vile tunes that are played about the streets by grinding organs, and yet they may all be said to be the music of Handle.
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THE YOUNG NOVELIST'S GUIDE TO MEDICINE
CHLOROFORM. Invaluable to writers of sensational stories. Every high-class fictionary criminal carries a bottle in his pocket. A few drops, spread on a handkerchief and waved within a yard of the hero's nose, will produce a state of complete unconsciousness lasting for several hours, within which time his pockets may be searched at leisure. This property of chloroform, familiar to every expert novelist, seems to have escaped the notice of the medical profession.
CONSUMPTION. The regulation illness for use in tales of mawkish pathos. Very popular some years ago, when the heroine made farewell speeches in blank verse, and died to slow music. Fortunately, however, the public has lost its fondness for work of this sort. Consumption at its last stage is easily curable (in novels) by the reappearance of a hero supposed to be dead. Two pages later the heroine will gain strength in a way which her doctors--not unnaturally--will describe as "perfectly marvellous." And in the next chapter the marriage-bells will ring.
DOCTOR. Always include a doctor among your characters. He is quite easy to manage, and invariably will belong to one of these three types: (_a_) The eminent specialist. Tall, imperturbable, urbane. Only comes incidentally into the story. (_b_) Young, bustling, energetic. Not much practice, and plenty of time to look after other people's affairs. Hard-headed and practical. Often the hero's college friend. Should be given a pretty girl to marry in the last chapter. (_c_) The old family doctor. Benevolent, genial, wise. Wears gold-rimmed spectacles, which he has to take off and wipe at the pathetic parts of the book.
FEVER. A nice, useful term for fictionary illnesses. It is best to avoid mention of specific symptoms, beyond that of "a burning brow," though, if there are any family secrets which need to be revealed, delirium is sure to supervene at a later stage. _Arthur Pendennis_, for instance, had fictional "fever," and baffled doctors have endeavoured ever since to find out what really was the matter with him. "Brain-fever," again, is unknown to the medical faculty, but you may safely afflict your intellectual hero with it. The treatment of fictionary fever is quite simple, consisting solely of frequent doses of grapes and cooling drinks. These will be brought to the sufferer by the heroine, and these simple remedies administered in this way have never been known to fail.
FRACTURE. After one of your characters has come a cropper in the hunting-field he will be taken on a hurdle to the nearest house: usually, by a strange coincidence, the heroine's home. And he will be said to have sustained "a compound fracture"--a vague description which will quite satisfy your readers.
GOUT. An invaluable disease to the humorist. Remember that heroes and heroines are entirely immune from it, but every rich old uncle is bound to suffer from it. The engagement of his niece to an impecunious young gentleman invariably coincides with a sharp attack of gout. The humour of it all is, perhaps, a little difficult to see, but it never fails to tickle the public.
HEART DISEASE. An excellent complaint for killing off a villain. If you wish to pave the way for it artistically, this is the recognised method: On page 100 he will falter in the middle of a sentence, grow pale, and press his hand sharply to his side. In a moment he will have recovered, and will assure his anxious friends that it is nothing. But the reader knows better. He has met the same premonitory symptoms in scores of novels, and he will not be in the least surprised when, on the middle of page 250, the villain suddenly drops dead.
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UNPOPULAR GAME AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY.--"High-sky-high!"
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A ROUGH WINE.--Rude-sheimer.
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NERVOUS.--Mrs. Malaprop was induced to go to a music hall the other evening. She never means to set foot in one again. The extortions some of the performers threw themselves into quite upset her.
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MOTTO FOR A MODEL MUSIC-HALL ENTERTAINMENT.--"Everything in its 'turn' and nothing long."
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TO BILLIARD PLAYERS.--If you would obey the _rules_ of billiards, always attend to the _cannons_ of the game.
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THE SUSPENSORY ACT.--Hanging the Academy exhibition.
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IN THE BILLIARD ROOM.--_Major Carambole._ I never give any bribes to the club servants on principle.
_Captain Hazard._ Then I suppose the marker looks on the tip of your cue without interest.
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A BROTHER ARTIST
["We have regularly attended the Academy now for many years, but never do we remember such a poor show of portraits; they cannot prove to be otherwise than the laughing-stock of tailors and their customers."--_Tailor and Cutter._]
The tailor leaned upon his goose, And wiped away a tear: "What portraits painting-men produce," He sobbed, "from year to year! These fellows make their sitters smile In suits that do not fit, They're wrongly buttoned, and the style Is not the thing a bit.
"Oh, artist, I'm an artist too! I bid you use restraint, And only show your sitters, do, In fitting coats of paint; In vain you crown those errant seams With smiles that look ethereal, For man may be the stuff of dreams-- But dreams are not material."
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MEDICAL.--A sculptor friend, who has strabismus, consoles himself with the thought that he can always keep his profession in view through having a cast in his eye.
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NOT QUITE THE SAME.--Scene: _Exhibition of Works of Art._
_Dealer_ (_to friend, indicating stout person closely examining a Vandyke_). Do you know who _that_ is? I so often see him about.
_Friend._ I know him. He's a collector.
_Dealer_ (_much interested_). Indeed! What does he collect? Pictures?
_Friend._ No. Income tax.
[_Exeunt severally._
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ART CLASS.--_Inspector._ What is a "landscape painter"?
_Student._ A painter of landscapes.
_Inspector._ Good. What is an "animal painter"?
_Student._ A painter of animals.
_Inspector._ Excellent. What is a "marine painter"?
_Student._ A painter of marines.
_Inspector._ Admirable! Go and tell it them. Call next class.
[_Exeunt students._
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THE BEST "PUBLISHER'S CIRCULAR."--A round dining-table.
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A PROFESSIONAL VIEW OF THINGS.--Old Paynter never neglects any opportunity for advancing art. Every evening he has the cloth drawn.
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BEVERAGE FOR A MUSICIAN.--Thorough bass.
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POETICAL LICENCE.--A music-hall's.
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TURF REFORM.--Mowing your lawn.
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A MONSTER MEETING..--A giant and a dwarf.
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THE SOAKER'S PARADISE.--Dropmore.
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BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.