Part 2

Quite spiled my smart cab as a dove-cote that day. Druv 'ome rather late, and a trifle less cheerful, Him wondrous perlite, but,--well, wandering-eyed, an' 'er with the least little touch of the tearful. For me, I'd the 'ump, though 'e paid like a prince. Didn't see them again not till twenty year after; And then--well it gave me the doldrums somehow, though BILL BOGER declared that it moved _'im_ to laughter.

_'E_ druv me and BILL to the Derby! We'd clubbed for a friendly drag down, BILL an' me, and some others, And poor young F. O. was our whip! 'E'd gone badgery slightly, along not of years but of bothers. _I_ knew _'im_ at once, and I think 'e twigged _me_; but 'e made ne'er a sign, only looked grave and civil. And when BILLY stood 'im a drink, 'e bowed low, just to 'ide what I guess was a flash o' the devil.

I never let on, but addressed 'im respekful, and jest touched my 'at when we parted. Says BILLY, "You're mighty perlite on the suddent, young Snapshotter!" Well, I may be sentimental or silly, But _I_ often spekylate 'ow them two fare, and if I'll ever see them again; if they're married. I've tooled lots o' pairs to the Derby since then, and I tell you some curious couples I've carried.

A brace o' young Sheenies as slep all the way, a' Eathen Chinee with a helderly lydy Distributin' tracks; two hevangelist singers, as plump as JEM SMITH, and as black as _Man Friday_; But if I possessed this 'ere _clarevoyong_ power I'd try it upon _Cremorne's_ year and _that_ couple. Wich makes BILLY say I'm as young as I was then, at 'art--though I mayn't be so nimble and supple.

* * * * *

LETTERS TO A FIANCÉE.

DEAR GLADYS,--I am so glad that in spite of your many engagements--one of them being an engagement to be married--you found time to write to me again at last. You say little about your _fiancé_, but that, after all, is of small importance. I approve of engagements in the abstract; I know of no amusement more harmless nor more agreeable for a young girl; and from my own experience I shall be delighted to assist you, with any little hints in my power, towards making the course of true love run as smoothly as possible.

You have not described ARTHUR very clearly--(I am supposing, for the sake of argument, that his name is ARTHUR; in your agitation you did not tell me his name, but I think you are the sort of girl who would be in love with the sort of man who would be called ARTHUR)--you have not, I say, told me much about him; but from your letter I gather the following suggestive facts:--

I. _You were made for each other._

A simple and self-evident proposition--it needs no comment.

II. _He never loved anyone but you! Except once, many years ago; and he has told you all about it quite frankly. She was unworthy of him; and married Another._

Now I have no doubt whatever, GLADYS, that you are quite jealous of this person of whom he has told you, quite frankly and who was unworthy of him, and married Another. I wish I could convince you of the fact that there is no one in the world so little dangerous to you as the person to whom he has grown indifferent. Fear rather the girls he _doesn't_ know, the women he _will_ meet, the charming people to whom he has just been introduced, the cousins he has never made love to! The past can not be the rival of the present: the future may. But this is a subject on which argument is of no avail. Reason retires, snubbed: and retrospective sensitiveness remains. Now come his faults:--

III. _He does not like the way you do your hair, and he has a book of dried flowers with their names written above them in Latin and violet ink, and he shows them to you when he comes to tea._

These appear to be his only defects. I can understand that they cause you some anxiety, but with care I trust in time they may wear off. Like BUFFON the naturalist (_is_ it BUFFON?) or somebody, I have, from stray bones, so to speak, to reconstruct, in imagination, the entire animal. My impression of him is somewhat vague, but on the whole satisfactory. It is charming of him to go home and write to you the instant he has left you--I think it only right, of course--when people meet every day they have a great deal more to write about than if they saw each other occasionally. One thing in your letter puzzled me. He has been called to the Bar, but he did not go, because he had once been thinking of being a clergyman and he had conscientious scruples about the law. What _can_ you mean? I am quite at a loss, but since you say it was very noble of him and you love him all the more, I suppose it is all right. You say his father has a maddening way of taking you aside and asking you in general to "use your influence" with ARTHUR. He never says what about, but gives forth irritating platitudes about "a woman's tact" and "gentle feminine persuasion." You are quite right to agree at once and not ask for an explanation, as it would keep you away from ARTHUR longer, and it doesn't matter in the least.

It is very curious about the day ARTHUR went shooting and told you he had shot two brace of grouse, and you found out afterwards it was not true, he had shot thirteen. You ask me "how you should act," and say you have as yet "taken no steps in the matter."

Of course, if you find him out in a little fib and let him know it, he will think you have a horribly suspicious nature and be rather disgusted at your want of trustfulness; on the other hand, if you don't show it, he will think you extraordinarily stupid and easily duped. I think if I were you, I should whenever the subject is alluded to, pin on an enigmatic smile and be silent. This will be quite sufficient punishment for the boastfulness of his modesty. Write soon again. I am glad ARTHUR is so good to his sister's husband. A good brother-in-law always makes an excellent _fiancé_.

With congratulations and every good wish,

Your affectionate friend, MARJORIE.

* * * * *

* * * * *

NOT THE CHEESE!

(_By an Old-fashioned Fellow_)

["I would buy 'Cheshire,' if I could get it; but I cannot. For years I have been doing business in most parts of the country ... and I have hardly ever seen a Cheshire cheese."--_"Fromage," in the correspondence on "English Cheese" in the "Daily News."_]

So they've found it out at last, the other fellows, The mystery that for years I have bewailed! The cheese that with long keeping merely mellows, The good "Old Cheshire" from our marts has failed! You _cannot_ get it now for love or money, That fair, and fine, and flavoursome old stuff, With its amber glow as warm as virgin honey-- So different from the Yankee's soapy buff! Don't talk to me of fine Canadian Cheddar, Of Gloster, or of Dutch, or shams like these; They may be cheaper, greasier, yellower, redder, But they're none of 'em a patch on Cheshire Cheese!

Why, I used to munch it every day at luncheon;-- 'Twas lovely with a glass of amber ale! Now a chunk as hard as any Bobby's truncheon, As dry as yellow soap, and just as pale, They give me when I ask 'em for Old Cheshire, Or a clammy stuff called Gruyere--all in holes. Ah! "a crust of bread-and-cheese" was once a pleasure To honest appetites and English souls. I can do with Wiltshire, Dorset, Double Gloster, Or even good old Stilton at a pinch, But the modern "Cheshire" Cheese is an impostor, From whose muckiness malodorous I flinch.

What the dickens have they been and gone and done with it? The foreigner has mucked _our_ market up, And it seems to me he's simply having fun with it. Cheese hard as any steel shot from a Krupp, Or soft and green and oozy as a swamp is, They give me, with some comic crackjaw name. But these foreign frauds--like Cæsars and like Pompeys-- In nastiness seem pretty much the same. The smell of 'em--sometimes--is something horrid. They are limp, and locomotive, and--oh, there! The _thought_ of 'em makes me go chill or torrid, Whether Gruyere, or Roquefort, or Camembert!

Then the Yankee with his tendencies Titanic Has sacrificed prime cheese to speed and bulk. _Now_ they say that in our markets there is panic; That luckless dairy farmers shake and sulk. Well upon my Alfred David _I_ don't wonder If "Cheddar" cheese _is_ rotting by the ton; For our worship of mere bigness is a blunder And I only hope the reign of it is done. But why should boyhood's "Cheshire Cheese" delicious-- Like good old Ribstone pippins--fail and cease? Of modern "Cheshire" I am most suspicious, And whatever it _may_ be, it's not "the cheese"!

* * * * *

AN ASININE PERFORMANCE.--A certain gallant and deservedly popular colonel, whose love of politics is, perhaps, not quite so fervent as his fondness for race-horses and greyhounds, has recently turned his attention to another and comparatively novel form of sport. This takes the shape of an _asinus doctus_--a learned, or accomplished, donkey--"who can be matched at jumping, eating, and drinking, or all three, against any other member of his tribe in the world," and the erudite animal gave, for the colonel's behoof, a private exhibition of his attainments in the grounds attached to an hotel in Norton. First, _Ned_ jumped a 5ft. 6in. bar "without any apparent effort:" then he devoured an ounce of twist tobacco and half-a-pound of bacon with equal ease, but the thirst provoked by the latter comestible had to be assuaged by a quart of champagne which he "put away" with great promptitude and gusto. Refreshed with wine he further proceeded to show a clean pair of heels to a pony in a steeplechase, winning easily--"ears down" in fact. Finally, with a fox-terrier dog as his jockey, he galloped round an orchard. The colonel was much pleased with the entertainment, and well he might be. There is a brilliant career in store for that donkey on the variety stage; or even in Parliament, where he might "command the applause of list'ning senates," while adorning the Hibernian benches as, of course, Member "for Bray."

Bedad! here's a leader, ye sons o' Killarney Begorrah! ye'll not find a better I'll lay. Thin hould all yer braggin' and blusterin' blarney, And take a few hints from the Mimber for Bray!

* * * * *

* * * * *

L'ILE DE WIGHT.

_À Monsieur Punch._

DEAR MISTER,--After to have assisted at the Congress of Geographs at London I come of to make a little _voyage d'agrément_--a voyage of agreement--to the Island of Wight. I am gone to render visit to one of my english friends who inhabits Sandown. I go not to tell you his name, that would be to outrage the privacy of your "Home, sweet home." I shall call him "SMITH." _Ah, le brave garçon?_--the brave boy! Eh well, this good SMITH he invites me at him--_chez lui_, how say you?--and I part from London by a beautiful morning of August, and I arrive to Portsmout. See there the Island of Wight in face! I traverse the sea in packet-boat, I arrive to Ride, and, in fine, to Sandown. _Tiens_, see there the brave SMITH on the quay of the station! I would wish to embrace him. But no! We are in England. I go to give him a shake-hands. _Voilà tout._ And he conducts me to his house, and I see there Madame, who is charming, and his childs. Ah, the dear little childs. But I speak not of them, because all that is the "Home, sweet home," and, as one says in english, the castle of the Englishman is in his house.

Sandown is a little town, enough coquette, very well placed at the border of the sea. In effect, there is a _plage_, a _promenade_, a _jetée_. It is not precisely the _plage_ of Trouville, the _promenade_ of Ostende; but it is enough agreeable. Only, at place of the pretty little cabins, the tents, so charming, so coquette, there is some drolls of things, some boxes on wheels, which one calls "bathings machines." Oh, _la, la!_ I mock myself of them. And of more! The ladys and the gentlemans can not to bathe themselves together. They are there, all near the one of the other, but not together. _Ah çà, c'est épatant!_ Me I march all gaily in the water towards the ladys; I am in my costume of bath, all that there is of most as he must--_de plus comme il faut_, how say you? When a man in a little boat agitates the arms, and cries himself, "Hi there!" that is to say, "_Hé là-bas!_"--and still of more which I comprehend not. And my friend SMITH he cries to me also, and he agitates the arms, and, in fine, I comprehend that it is defended. What droll of idea!

One day there is the _régates_--the regattas. We go all on the little pier, and I see the Duckunt, the Watter-polo, the Greasepol. Ah, it is of the most amusings! On the promenade there is the musicians, who play of the organ, of the banjo; also the singers that you call "nigers." They are there all together, and one hears the valse, the hymn, the song of the Coffee Concert, all at the time. There is also a man who walks himself on some stilts. He is very droll, and the assistance--_l'assistance_--laughs much. Me I laugh as the other spectators. The evening there is a fire of artifice, and the little town is of the most gay. There is some "set-pieces," as one calls them, and I read "Welcome to our Visitors." That is very polite; I offer my thanks to Misters the Municipal Councillors of Sandown. And there is one other which I see hardly, I see but "Success to ----." My friend SMITH tells to me that it is "Success to our Saloon Bar." That may be. But he is _blagueur_ this SMITH, he pleasants--_plaisante_, how say you?--sometimes.

_A vrai dire_--to true to say--Sandown is well agreeable, above all when he makes fine. _Et il faisait un temps superbe_--he was making a superb time. As to the other parts of the Island of Wight, I go to speak you of them in one other letter.

Agree, &c.,

AUGUSTE.

* * * * *

* * * * *

The Bechuanaland potentate visiting our shores is voted by all "a jolly good fellow," and is generally admitted to be what, in Parisian parlance, is known as a _bon Khama-rade_.

* * * * *

"JEWELL'S APOLOGY."--Paste.

* * * * *

PUNCH TO THE RUGBY UNION.

["Professionalism is illegal."--_First "New Law" adopted by the Rugby Union for the control of Rugby Football._]

ROWLAND HILL, and gentlemen all, Thanks for your efforts to "keep up the ball" Out of the Moneygrub's sordid slime! "Professionalism" and "Broken Time" Wanted the touch of a vigorous hand To keep the Amateur Football Band From the greedy clutch of the spirit of trade And speculation, alas! arrayed In spoil-sport fashion against true sport, On turf and river, in course and court. Keep it up, gentlemen! Let not the shame Of money-greed mar one more grand English game!

* * * * *

"THE NEW WOMAN" AT THE LYCEUM, _i.e._, Mrs. PATRICK CAMPBELL as _Romeo-Robertson's Juliet_. Heartily can we "pat CAMPBELL" on her delicate shoulder for her rendering of her share in the "Balcony Scene." That "The CAMPBELLS are coming" we all know; but whether this particular CAMPBELL, "of that ilk," has yet "arrived" is the question on which we shall have more to say "in our next." Scenically, satisfactory. Dramatically, doubtful.

* * * * *

UGLY.

(_A Pendant to a pretty little "pome" called "Pretty," by "Janet."_)

An ugly little artist had an ugly little dream, Of an ugly little world built on an ugly little scheme; He took up his little pencil and incontinently tried To make ugly little pictures of that world so uglified.

He drew ugly little figures just like evil little imps, With ugly little bodies of the hue of parboiled shrimps, With ugly little faces of a subterhuman sort, Each a dark Gehenna phantom or unnatural Stygian "sport."

He limned ugly little mannikins as pale as tallow dips, And ugly unsexed women with protuberant under lips, With ugly scarlet tresses, or with sable porters'-knots, And with noses like a satyr's, and with eyes like inky blots.

He daubed ugly little backgrounds, all as meaningless as mud, And ugly little sunsets all suggesting fire and blood, And ugly little arabesques which little seemed to mean, Yet were commonly suggestive of the cruel and unclean.

Then that ugly little artist kicked up ugly little heels, And indulged in grim grimaces, and in gruesome little squeals, And he cried, "Hooray! On Loveliness shall man no longer feast. _I_ have proved that Art's true subject is not Beauty, but--the Beast!"

* * * * *

MRS. MAMMON.

[One of the latest journalistic attractions is said to be "finance made easy"--for ladies!]

What? Finance made easy for ladies?-- If _that_'s the last conquest of Mammon, "Sweet home" may henceforth be a Hades, Domestic enjoyment mere gammon. To babies, and bonnets, and kisses 'Tis sacred; and O 'twere a pity, To find our fair matrons and misses Devoted to "Funds" and "the City." Let home be all innocent honey; With (she) Bulls and Bears do not rend it. All women should know about money Is what they know now--how to spend it!

* * * * *

* * * * *

PSYCHOPHILOPHRENOPHYSIOGNOMY.

(_Some further Wrinkles by an Amateur Delineator._)

["A hint as to the manner you look at people, when delineating them for your own purpose, so that they should not be cognisant you are taking mental notes. Never stare at anyone straight in the face; and if whilst looking you should catch your subject's eye, quickly avert your gaze without moving to something about them that they may be wearing, or to the next person; you may for the moment appear to be looking into vacancy, or making a mental calculation, without staring at anything in particular."--_Professor O., in a weekly journal._]

To be a successful delineator you should cultivate the art of squinting. Do this readily and naturally, without any apparent effort. This completely baffles the subject, for even if you catch _his_ eye, you may safely defy him to catch yours. Beside, it economises time. In a crowd you can often thus kill two birds with one stone, or stony stare. If, however, nature has denied you this accomplishment, instead of squinting, you may wink the other eye. But this is sometimes misconstrued, as it has a rather challenging effect. You may find yourself (if the subject is a lady) head over ears in a flirtation--or in a somersault down the stairs--according to circumstances, before you know where you are.

Acquire the habit of taking physiognomical snap-shots. Practise this until, by merely glancing at a person in a good light for, say the twentieth of a second, you can secure a mental picture of his or her character, habits, and hobbies. You can develop and intensify, if necessary, these useful little views at home, bringing out further details as to the subject's bank-balance, latest _affaire de coeur_, or number of first-cousins-once-removed. All these points can be elucidated with a little patience and imagination.

Always, in conversing with a chance acquaintance you may meet in the street, gaze steadily at the brim of his hat, or study his necktie with a fixed and critical stare. This will make him think there is something wrong. He will fidget, and become nervous, revealing the inmost secrets of his soul. You then easily bag your instantaneous view, and depart abruptly with triumph. He will cut you dead next time, but that doesn't matter. You have added him to your collection, and can sail in quest of fresh specimens.

Some ladies rather like their new bonnets being examined. Learn, therefore, to do this with respectful admiration, and be prepared with an instant and favourable criticism. It is as well to master a few technical terms, so as to avoid, for example, confusing an _aigrette_ with a _toque_.

If, on the other hand, your lady victims resent their head-gear or hair-dye being too closely examined, you must fall back on mental arithmetic. Calculate how many barleycorns it would take to go round the equator, or how many white beans there are in five black ones. If these sums are too hard to be done on the spur of the moment, work them out at home, and learn the results by heart, before sallying forth on your head-hunting expeditions.

Never ask a policeman without scanning narrowly his features, nor, if sitting behind a 'bus-driver, omit to secure his profile. Interview every crossing-sweeper you pass. Organ-grinders, also, are fairly inexpensive material to work upon. All these common objects are readily accessible, and frequently prove perfect mines of character, if you only dig deep enough below the surface. But the earnest explorer will find the countenances of cabmen to be the most remunerative phreno-physiognomical studies. Never mind their remarks if you can enrich your note-book with some hitherto undiscovered trait of human nature, with the inner meaning of some mysterious wrinkle, or with the true poetry of a wayward wart. Return home happy if the day's achievements include the decipherment of a mole on a flower-girl's cheek, or the translation of some rare tint of colour-music on the nose of some loafer near a pub.

Do not be content with the stores of face-reading lore that have been already acquired. Each day fresh secrets should be revealed. For instance, it has only recently been ascertained that one freckle on the tip of the nose means a disposition to borrow money without returning it; that three pimples in a row across the forehead indicate unpunctuality and insubordination; or that a droop of the left eyelid signifies habitual impecuniosity. It is still a moot point whether a nose can be both Quixotic and witty, and how to read a promiscuous eyebrow when combined with a constant upper lip. These, and many other mysteries, are waiting to be laid bare by the amateur but ardent face delineator.

* * * * *

THE WHY AND THE WHEREFORE.

_Porter (to passenger)._ Where for? _Passenger._ Wye.

And Porter does not reply, "'Cos I want to know," but puts a label on passenger's portmanteau accordingly.

* * * * *

"AND I HOPE YOU'RE A MEMBER OF THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND?"

_Applicant for Situation as Pace boy._ "OH YES, MA'AM--_VERY_ HIGH!"]

* * * * *

TOM THE GOLFER.

[A Stanza on behalf of the testimonial now set on foot, and promoted by Mr. A. J. BALFOUR, to TOM MORRIS, the Grand Old Man of Golf.]

AIR--"_Tom the Tinker_."