Chapter 2

With a hey-diddle-diddle and fiddle-di-dee, Oh! the supping Super's the man for me!"

_Spinks, Boldero, Gushby, Jarp_ (_with enthusiasm_). My dear fellow, that's immense.

_Hill._ Yes, it's not bad. There are six verses, some of them even better than that.

[_The Chairman rises to propose the only toast of the evening, "Success to the Great Actor who is about to leave us for a short time." The usual speech--reminiscent, anecdotic, prophetic of tremendous triumphs, mildly humorous, pathetic._

_The Chairman_ (_concluding_). Therefore I bid you all charge your glasses as full of wine as your hearts are full of sympathy, and join me in wishing success to the Great Man, who is about to cull new laurels in a foreign land.

[_Roars of applause. Immense enthusiasm. The Great Actor responds. He is moved to tears. He assures his friends, that wherever he may go his heart will ever turn fondly to them. Great cheering._

_Tiffington_ (_puffing his cigar_). Not so bad. I always said he could speak better than he could act.

[_The supper concludes._ HALL _has not been asked to sing._

_Friend of Great Actor_ (_departing, to_ TIFFINGTON). It's been a splendid evening, hasn't it?

_Tiffington_ (_putting on his coat_). Yes. Pretty fair. (_To_ HALL.) Sorry for you, old chap. But the song will keep.

_Hall._ Keep? Oh, yes, it'll keep. I'll make it red-hot for the lot of 'em, and sing it at Blankbury next year. They won't like that, I rather think.

_Jarp._ No, by Gad!

[_Exeunt omnes._

* * * * *

THE SHREWING OF THE TAME.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

MR. F. R. BENSON deserves commendation for a new idea. SHAKSPEARE has been presented in many forms, but the notion of giving the Bard without any acting to speak of is a novelty. And it is not quite certain that it is a mistake. After all, a bad actor is an infliction, and it is better to have gentlemen who have not spent centuries in mastering the intricacies of their profession than a noisy personage who tears his passions to atoms. The recent revivals of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ and the _Taming of the Shrew_ at the Globe Theatre show how pleasing Shakspearian representations may be made, even when their success depends less upon elocution than scenic effect. The first of these plays was simply delightful, with its fairy glades and "built-up" temples. The last, too, is well off for "cloths," pleasingly representing Padua and Verona. The performers (with the exception of Mr. STEPHEN PHILLIPS, who speaks his lines with admirable effect) are not so noticeable. One of the best-played parts in the piece is filled by an actor whose name does not appear in the programme. He has nothing to do but to carry off _Katherina_ (Mrs. F. R. BENSON), in Sc. 5., Act III., on his back. That he looks like an ass while doing this goes without saying, but still he is a valuable addition to the cast. From an announcement in the programme, it appears that _Othello_, _Hamlet_, and the _Merchant of Venice_ are shortly to be played. It seems at the first blush a difficult task to pick out of Mr. BENSON'S present company a gentleman quite suited to fill the title _rôles_ in the two first, and _Shylock_ in the last. But, no doubt, the Lessee and Manager thinks the playing of the characters of the Prince of Denmark and the Moor a matter of minor importance. And, if he does, it may be argued, from the cordial reception that has been accorded to _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ and the _Taming of the Shrew_, that he has an excellent reason for his opinion.

Believe me, yours truly, ONE WHO IS EASILY PLEASED.

* * * * *

HOW TO MEET IT.

SIR,--Having read all the letters that have appeared in the papers suggesting a treatment for the prevailing epidemic, I have got, perhaps, a little confused; but, on the whole, the following is the course, as far as I can make out, that it would be prudent to pursue on finding oneself threatened with any of the well-known symptoms. Immediately get into a warm bath several degrees hotter than you can possibly bear it, then get out again. Now go to bed, send for your family solicitor, and make your will, meantime trying every half hour half a tumbler or so of any patent medicine the advertisement of which occurs to you. Call in a homoeopathic doctor, and give his system a turn for four-and-twenty hours; then send for your own medical man. Take care that they do not meet on the stairs. Take anything and everything he gives you for the next eight-and-forty hours, interspersing his prescriptions with frequent tumblers of hot and steaming ammoniated quinine-and-water, getting down at the same time more beef tea, oysters, champagne, muffins, mince-pies, oranges, nuts, and whiskey than, under ordinary circumstances, you feel would be good for you. Continue the above treatment for a couple of months. This is what I am going to try, if I am down with it. As I said above, it is, if a little complicated, sure to be all right, for I have got every item of it from a careful perusal of those infallible guides and directors in all modern difficulties and doubts,

THE DAILY PAPERS.

* * * * *

KICKED!

(_By the Foot of Clara Groomley._)

CHAPTER II.

I am still at Ryde, and it is still raining. On a day like this, a little Ryde goes a great way. No Ryde without rain. _Telle est la vie._ The young girls at Plumfields sit writing themes indoors instead of taking their exercise in the open air.

If this rain keeps on, I shall go to wild Assam again, or to the Goodwin Sands. JAMES, the headwaiter, has told me thirteen different stories of the haunted room of this hotel. None of them are amusing, or interesting, or have anything to do with this tale. If I were writing a shilling volume, I should put them in by way of padding. As it is, they may go out. I too will go out.

***

I have seen Mlle. DONNERWETTER. She was racing along on the pier, and I was pacing along in the rear. I saw her and caught her up. I hastily pressed all the valuables that I had with me--four postage-stamps and an unserviceable watch-key--into her hand, and entreated her to give me an interview with Miss SMITH.

"Me muchee want to oblige English Sahib," she said, in her pulverised English, "but ze Effendina--ze what you call 'ead-mistress, French lady like myself--she no like it. She give me the _bottine_, if I let great buckra massa talk to Fraulein SMEETS. But lookee--I give you straight tip. Miss SMEETS is on ze pier now--you write note--slip it in her hand. I wink ze eyebrow. I have a grand envy to oblige the English Signor. Ah! Bismillah! _Quelle alouette!_"

She is French, very French, but she has a kind heart. I hurriedly wrote a few impassioned words on my left cuff, and folded it into a three-cornered note. I dropped it down Miss SMEET'S neck as I found her leaning over the side of the pier, and then ran away. I heard her murmur, "Someone's mistaken me for the post-office."

It is still raining, but I am quite happy. I have seen her again, and I feel that she loves me. It was impossible to mistake the _tendresse_ with which she murmured, "post-office." In my little note I requested her to send a reply to this hotel. I have asked her to tell me plainly what her income is, and to state on what conditions she will forfeit it. Of course, she has no income now, as she is a minor, but I would wait a year or two for a certainty. Shall I write her some verses--lines to a minor, or thoughts on the Southampton quay? Perhaps I had better wait until I obtain the statistics. Ah, here is JAMES, bringing me a note. It must be from my darling--no, it is from Mademoiselle.

DEAR SIR,--Miss SMITH am going away to Londres. A telegram come for her, and I look over the shoulder. It say, 'Poor TOMMY'S kicked! Come at once,' Miss SMITH make the tears.

Yours, LUCIA DONNERWETTER.

I must be off to London and get this matter traced. JAMES entreats me to buy a new hat when I am away. He says it's bringing disgrace on the hotel, and keeping away custom. What! Give up the hat which her dear foot has kicked! Never! But, perhaps, I will have it ironed. The iron has entered into my soul, and perhaps, it would be doing more good on my hat. Yes, I will have it ironed. It does look a little limp. Ironed or starched--what matter, when my darling is gone, and left me with no information as to her income?

(_To be concluded in Two more Chapters._)

* * * * *

"Venice Preserved" in The Haymarket.

No--not OTWAY'S tragedy, and not under Mr. BEERBOHM TREE'S management, but at the Gallery next door to the Theatre, and under the superintendence of Mr. MCLEAN, you will find not only Venice, but Florence, Prague, Heidelberg, Capri, Augsburg, Nuremburg, Innsbrück, and a good many other picturesque places, preserved in about a hundred water-colour drawings, by Mr. EDWARD H. BEARNE. If there were not so many rivers and lagoons in the exhibition, it might be called the "Bearnese Oberland." These pictures are well painted, and, during the gruesome weather, a tiny tour round this sunny gallery is mighty refreshing.

* * * * *

STUDY FOR THE PELICAN CLUB.--The "Logic and Principles of Mill."

* * * * *

* * * * *

"BRITONS NEVER WILL BE SLAVES!"

(_A Scene from a Domestic Comedy._)

MRS. BOB BULL was the wife of a British Workman, and she got up at four o'clock in the morning.

"Must rise early," she said, "to see that my man has his breakfast."

So she lighted the fire, and put the kettle on to boil, and laid the cloth, and swept out the rooms. Then down came BOB rather in a bad humour, because he had been late over-night at the "Cock and Bottle," detained (as he explained to his wife) by a discussion about the rights of labour.

"Of course," said Mrs. BULL; "and why shouldn't you, after a hard day's work, enjoy yourself?"

But BOB contended that he had not enjoyed himself, although he had undoubtedly expended two shillings and eight-pence upon refreshment. What BOB wanted to know was, why there was a button off his coat, and why his waistcoat had not been properly mended.

"Well, I was busy with the children's things," replied Mrs. BOB; "but I will put all straight when you have gone to work."

"Gone to work, indeed!" grumbled BOB. "Yes, it's I that does all the work, and worse luck to it!"

The moment BOB was out of the house, Mrs. BOB got the children up and dressed them, and gave them their breakfasts and sent them off to school. When they were gone, she "tidied up" and dressed the baby. Then she did one of "the bits of washing," that came from a family in whose service she had been before she married BOB, and that family's connection. And this occupied her fully, what with soaking, and mangling and ironing, until it was time to carry BOB his dinner. In the pauses of her work she had been able to cook it, and it was quite ready to go with her when she was prepared to take it. It was a long walk (in the rain) to BOB'S place of work, and it seemed the longer because she could not leave the baby. But both got there, and the dinner, without any accident. And then Mrs. BOB hurried back to give the children, now home from school, _their_ midday meal. And Mrs. BOB had plenty of work to do afterwards. She had to mend, and to scrub, and to sweep, and to sew. She was not off her legs for a moment, and had she been a weaker woman, she would have been thoroughly done up. Then came the children's evening toilette and the cooking of BOB'S supper. Her lord and master entered in due course, and she helped him off with his coat, and (when he had finished his food) lighted his pipe for him.

"Mended my clothes?" asked BOB.

"Of course I have."

"And washed my linen, and druv nails into my boots, and baked the bread, and pickled the walnuts, and all the rest of it?"

"Yes, BOB, I have done them all--every one of them."

This put BOB into a better temper, and he took out an evening paper, and began to read it.

"I say," said he; "what do you think! They have got white slaves in Turkey!"

"You don't say so, BOB!" replied Mrs. BOB, lost in amazement. Then she said as she paused tidying up the room, "Ah! they wouldn't allow anything of _that_ sort in England!--would they, BOB?"

And BOB, smoking his pipe, and sprawling before the fire, agreed with her!

* * * * *

The Riviera in Bond Street.

Why take a long journey and spend a lot of money, when the Riviera is within a shilling cab-fare? Why not apply at 148, New Bond Street, and obtain one of the Fine Art Society's "excursion _coupons_," and get yourself personally conducted by Mr. JOHN FULLEYLOVE to Nice, Monte Carlo, Genoa, and all sorts of delightful places? Take _Mr. Punch's_ advice, and go there at once! And, when you have exhausted the Riviera, you have another treat in a series of well-nigh seventy drawings of Cambridge. These are skilfully limned, with scrupulous architectural accuracy and charming pictorial effect, and will give great delight to Cantabrians, old and young. They are worthy to take their place beside the excellent series of pictures of Oxford which Mr. FULLEYLOVE exhibited some time ago.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"Bring me my books!" said the Baron, not for the first time. But on this occasion the Baron was a prisoner in bed, and likely to remain so for many days. Consequently, he required amusement. He had heard of a book, called _Three Men in a Boat_, by Mr. JEROME K. JEROME, some of whose observations, in a collection of papers entitled _Stage-land_, had caused him to laugh several times, and to smile frequently, for the subject has not been so well touched since GILBERT ABBOTT À BECKETT wrote his inimitable _Quizziology of the Drama_, which for genuine drollery has never been surpassed. Anticipating, then, some side-splitters from _Three Men in a Boat_, the Baron sent for the work. He opened it with a chuckle, which, instead of developing itself into a guffaw and then into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, gradually subsided altogether, his smile vanished, and an expression of weariness came over the Baron's face, as after heroically plodding through five chapters he laid the book down, and sighed aloud, "Well, I'm hanged if I see where the fun of this is." The Baron may be wrong, and the humour of this book, which seems to him to consist in weak imitations of American fun, and in conversations garnished with such phrases as "bally idiot," "bally tent," "doing a mouch," "boss the job," "put a pipe in his mouth, and spread himself over a chair," "land him with a frying-pan," "fat-headed chunk," "who the thunder" and so forth--a style the Baron believes to have been introduced from Yankee-land, and patented here by the _Sporting Times_ and its imitators,--interspersed with plentiful allusions to whiskey-drinking, may not be, as it is not, to his particular taste; and yet, for all that, it may be marvellously funny. So the Baron requested an admirer of this book to pick out the gems, and read them aloud to him. But even the admirer was compelled to own that the gems did not sparkle so brilliantly as he had at first thought. "Yet," observed the admirer, "it has had a big sale." "_Three Men in a Boat_ ought to have," quoth the Baron, cheerily, and then he called aloud, "Bring me _Pickwick_!" He commenced at the Review, and the first meeting of _Mr. Pickwick_ with the Wardle family. Within five minutes the Baron was shaking with spasmodic laughter, and CHARLES DICKENS'S drollery was as irresistible as ever. Of course the Baron does not for one moment mean to be so unfair to the _Three Men in a Boat_ as to institute a comparison between it and the immortal _Pickwick_, but he has heard some young gentlemen, quite of the modern school, who profess themselves intensely amused by such works as this, and as the two books by the author of _Through Green Glasses_, and yet allow that they could not find anything to laugh at in _Pickwick_. They did not object to _Pickwick_, as ladies very often do, that there is so much eating and drinking in it. "No," says the Baron, in bed, "Give me my _Pickwick_, and, after him, for a soothing and pleasant companion, give me WASHINGTON IRVING. When I'm in another sort of humour, bring me THACKERAY. For rollicking Irish life, give me LEVER. But as to youth-about-town life of the present day, I do not know of any second-class humorist who approaches within measurable distance of the author of _The Pottleton Legacy_, in the past." So far the Baron. And now "The Co." speaks:--

_A Tour in a Phaëton_, by J. J. HISSEY, is an interesting account of a driving trip through the Eastern Counties. It abounds in hisseytorical research; we are taken to all kinds of out-of-the-way and picturesque places, of which the Author gives us graphic pictures with pencil as well as pen. A fresher title to the work might have been devised, as the present one bears a striking likeness to Mr. BLACK'S _Adventures of a Phaëton_,--who, by the way, was the first to render driving tours popular. The volume abounds in poetical quotations. The authority, however, is seldom given, and inverted commas are conspicuous by their absence. It can hardly be imagined that all this poetry is by the writer of the book. In one instance he quotes a well-known verse by ASHBY-STERRY, without acknowledgment, in which, for some inscrutable reason, he has introduced a rugged final line which effectually mars the harmony of the original stanza.

Those who prefer Scotch broth well peppered to Butter-Scotch, should read _Our Journey to the Hebrides_, by Mr. and Mrs. PENNELL. They seem to have gone out of the beaten track in their tour, which is pleasant, and their views of Scotland, though they may cause controversy, are novel, and at the same time indescribably refreshing. As to the views of Scotland chronicled by Mr. PENNELL'S clever and facile pencil, they are full of thought, elaborate detail and wondrous originality. There are some forty of these, all remarkable for their everlasting variety and high artistic excellence.

_Dr. Hermione_ (_Blackwood_) is rather an idyl than a novel, and would have done better still if it had been cast in the form of a comedy. The still anonymous author who followed up _Zit and Zoë_ by _Lady Bluebeard_ possesses the gift, rare among novelists, of writing sparkling dialogue. The quickly changing scenes in the last chapter of _Dr. Hermione_, with its sprightly chatter would serve the poor player almost as it stands. It is not too late to think about the comedy. In the meanwhile the novel does very well, and if he had made his story a book for the play, we should have missed many dainty descriptions of scenery. Nothing is so good as his description of the Lake District in Autumn, unless it be his pictures of the surroundings of the Nile as it

Flows through hushed old Egypt and its sands, Like some grave mighty thought, threading a dream.

_Some Places of Note in England_ (DOWDESWELLS) have been deftly noted by a notable artist, namely, BIRKET FOSTER. From the "places of note," he has evolved some of the most delicate of harmonies. Whether he gives us a Canterbury _cantata_, a Richmond _rondo_, a Stratford symphony, a Lambeth _lied_, or a Tilbury _toccata_ we are equally delighted with his choice of _motivo_ and his brilliancy of execution. In this volume we have five-and-twenty pictures, admirably reproduced in the highest style of lithography. Mr. BIRKET FOSTER has been before the public for many years--he appeared, if we mistake not, in the early numbers of the _Illustrated News_: his work has been constant, and his pictures countless ever since, and yet, in the present volume, we find him better than ever.

_Sporting Celebrities._ The first number of this new monthly contains two excellent portraits by M. WALERY. One is of the Duke of BEAUFORT, the other of Mr. CHOLMONDELEY PENNELL. They are accompanied by crisp well-written biographical notices. The two portraits are well worth the price charged for the Magazine. A couple of good photographs for a shilling, cannot be considered dear. In addition to this, there are twenty pages of letterpress--so altogether it is a splendid shillingsworth. BARON DE BOOK-WORMS & CO.

* * * * *

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

INSANITARY DUST-BINS.--That your servants should have thrown half a lobster, several potted meat-tins, an uneatable rabbit-pie, and all the vegetable refuse of your household, into your dust-bin, and that it should not have been "attended to" for upwards of two months, is quite sufficient to account for the intolerable odour of which you and all your neighbours on that side of the street have had reason to complain; but, as you seem to think nothing but an epidemic fever, caused by the nuisance, will rouse the Authorities, you might, by throwing in a pound or two of phosphate of lime, the same quantity of copper shavings, and a gallon or so of nitric acid, as you suggest, create such an intolerable stench, that something would have to be done, and that without delay, to preserve your entire neighbourhood from a visitation of the plague. Try it, by all means. In the meantime have a notice, as you propose, put in your kitchen window, to the effect that a champagne luncheon, and half-a-crown a head, will be provided for the dustmen if they will only call. Failing this, you might take the steps you seriously contemplate, with a view to marrying into the dust-contractor's family. This, perhaps, coupled with a series of urgent letters to the _Times_, would be your wisest course. But, in the present unsatisfactory state of the law, it is difficult to know how to advise you for the best. Your idea, if the worst comes to the worst, and you cannot get the Vestry to attend to it, of blowing up your dust-bin yourself with gunpowder, you might resort to as a last expedient; but, as you seem to think it might bring down your portico, and possibly the whole front of your house as well, we should advise you not to put it into execution till _quite_ assured that your attempts to get your dust-bin emptied by some less violent means have all hopelessly failed. Anyhow, try the copper shavings and nitric acid first. We think you will find, if steadily persevered in, that they will, coupled, possibly, with some legal proceedings, settle the matter for you.

* * * * *

MORE GLORY.--The fall of a fragment of a chandelier has shed an additional lustre--or a portion of a lustre--on the _Brav' Général_.

* * * * *

QUITE THE FIRST BRIDGE.--The Forth Bridge.

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* * * * *