Chapter 2

Regard the young Clerk who's been out for the day, At night, at night! First to the Derby, and then to the play, At night, at night! He "spotted a winner" at twenty to one, His winnings will far more than pay for his fun; He's happy, free-handed, and "sure as a gun," At night, at night! But oh, what a difference In the morning! The bookie bolts, his "gaffer" gives him warning, He's not worth half-a-dollar, His prospect's "out of collar," And he curses speculation In the morning!

Behold the young playwright who hears his own piece, At night, at night! He thinks that (ironic) applause will ne'er cease, At night, at night! His "little one-act thing" is stodgy and slow, But the Pit is good-natured, the youth's in a glow, And he thinks--with some "cuts"--it will be "a great go," At night, at night! But oh, what a difference In the morning! The critics call the thing "an awful warning," They "guy," and sneer, and scoff, And his bantling's taken off, "To make room for some old farce, Sir!" In the morning!

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TAKING THE OAT-CAKE.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I was very much interested in the statement I saw in the papers the other day, that the best preservatives of a Lady's complexion are--Oatmeal and Oranges! I at once began the diet, but have not succeeded very well at present. Porridge, even with milk and cream, and plenty of sugar, is such _commonplace_ stuff, and one can't really be expected to eat oatmeal _raw_, though Scotch gamekeepers are said to do so. But then they are out in the open air all day, and I am not. Oranges are nice enough--but oh, _Mr. Punch_, what a lot of them one has to take before one feels as if one had had a meal! As I have stopped all other food, I am becoming rather weak. My complexion is, I think, improved--at all events, it is far less red or pink than it used to be--but I really haven't the strength to go out of doors to show it off. Even writing is a burden--so I will close, hoping that my experiences may benefit others who like to try the regimen.

LYDIA LANGUISH.

P.S.--My Doctor has just stopped the diet!

DEAR SIR,--We are sure that the Oatmeal-and-Orange prescription is an invaluable one for the complexion. We recently tried it on a Street Arab, and after one or two doses--accompanied by the employment of soap and water--he developed such a beautiful pink-and-white skin, that his parents failed to recognise him. This was unfortunate in one way, as he has now become chargeable on the rates. Talking of rates, we may mention that we supply finest Midlothian Campaign Oatmeal at a more reasonable figure than any other firm in the trade. Price-list on application.

Yours obediently, McCANNY & Co.

_Edinburgh._

SIR,--I am not less than fifty years' old, and marked with small-pox, and therefore I think that Oatmeal and Oranges would be sure to do my complexion good. As mine is perhaps a rather unusual case, I am trying the remedy in a peculiarly thorough way. I have an Oatmeal-bath twice a day, during which I suck six oranges. My breakfast consists of porridge and marmalade. I have engaged a policeman to knock at my front door three times every night, to wake me. I then sit up in bed and consume oat-cakes soaked in orange-juice. I also dress in yellow, and I have written to Belfast to ask if I can be admitted to an Orange Society there, but hitherto I have received no reply. You will, I think, agree with me that I am giving the new treatment a fair trial. Yours truly,

TABITHA NUPKINS.

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* * * * *

THE BAMSGATE SANDS.

It's hey for the sands, for the jolly Ramsgate Sands, Where the children shout and tumble, spade and bucket in their hands. Where sandy castles rise in scores, I trow a man might float A fleet of six-inch pleasure-skiffs on many a deep-dug moat. Where, while the banjos discord make, the German bands make noise, And nursemaids by the hundred shepherd flocks of girls and boys. Where the boys tuck up their trousers, and the girls tuck up their frocks, A paddling tribe who scorn their shoes and customary socks.

Ye loud-voiced men of cocoa-nuts, what is it that you say? "Come try yer luck, roll, bowl, or pitch; the lydies stand' alf-way." One youth I saw who took his stand, a clerk of pith was he, He shut one eye and aimed with care, then let the ball fly free. Twice, thrice, nay, thirty times he flung, his BETSY standing by, And scornfully advising him to close his other eye. Yet, when at last he had to own he could not do the trick, No solitary cocoa-nut had toppled from its stick.

Papa is in his glory here, that proud and happy man, But in spite of all his efforts, he can't get coloured tan. Yet every week-day morning, from ten o'clock till one, He turns that British face of his unflinching to the sun. Mamma she sits beside him; I overheard her say, "Lor, Pa, you'll soon be brown as brown, you're not so red to-day." But wives can't flatter tints away, and when he leaves the place, I'd guarantee to light my pipe at Pa's tomato face.

A front-row stall I quick secured, a green and gaudy bench, And paid my humble penny to a very buxom wench. The tide was running out amain, and slowly, bit by bit, She moved her back seats forward till she left me in the pit. Stout Mr. BIGGS, the hair-dresser, the Bond-Street mould of form, Sat next me with his family, and seemed to find it warm; And, while admiring Mrs. B. hung on her BIGGS's lips. He favoured me, as is his wont, with all the sporting tips.

But the most delightful object I saw upon that shore Was a ruddy-faced and chubby-legged philosopher of four. Though his sisters capered round him, the sage refused to budge, He continued quietly digging just as solemn as a judge; And if he fell, as men may fall, he spurned their proffered aid, But lay awhile and pondered, while he clutched his wooden spade; Then, having thought some problem out, and found that life was vain, He slowly raised his three-foot form, and set to work again.

And so the round of pleasure goes; a man could scarce believe How swift the merry hours spin by from dewy morn to eve. The goat-carts never want for fares fresh from their nurses' arms, All day the patient donkeys bear some maid's or matron's charms. The haughty ones may carp and sneer, we know their sorry style, But we who revel on this shore can hear them with a smile. We may be vulgar; what's the odds? We're cottage-folk, not "Grands," And our simple pleasures please us on the jolly Ramsgate Sands.

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DRURIOLANUS'S NEXT.--_The Prodigal Daughter_ is to be produced, when she's of proper age to come out, at Drury Lane. Who gave her that name? Is it her "_Pettitt nom_," or was it her Godfather, Sir DRURIOLANUS LE GRAND, or was it the joint effort of GRAND _et_ PETTITT, so as to satisfy all comers Great and Small? _The Prodigal Son_ has already served as the title of an Opera directly founded on the Scriptural parable of the Prodigal, and has recently been used as the title of the now famous _ballet d'action_. There was also a _Père Prodigue_--which the English schoolboy thought was French for an uncommonly big Marie Louise specimen; so there is justification and authority for bringing this new member of _The Prodigal_ family before the Public. Having once started, there maybe no end to the family of Prodigals. There will follow--_The Prodigal Aunt_, _The Prodigal Uncle_, _The Prodigal Second Cousin by first Husband's Marriage_, and so on, _ad infinitum_.

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* * * * *

THE LAND OF THE (RATHER TOO) FREE.

SCENE--_The Landing-Stage of an English Port._

_Custom-House Officer_ (_through an interpreter_). Do you speak English?

_Emigrant_ (_ditto_). No.

_Cust.-H. Off._ (_as before_). Have you any money?

_Emi._ (_ditto_). Not a kopeck.

_Cust.-H. Off._ Where do you come from?

_Emi._ Polish Russia.

_Cust.-H. Off._ Have you any family?

_Emi._ A sick wife and eight sick children.

_Cust.-H. Off._ Do any of you know a trade?

_Emi._ None of us.

_Cust.-H. Off._ Are you well enough to work?

_Emi._ No.

_Cust.-H. Off._ Have you any friends in England?

_Emi._ Don't know a soul.

_Cust.-H. Off._ Have you any luggage?

_Emi._ Only the Cholera!

* * * * *

A COMPENDIOUSLY GRAMMATICAL TREE.--A Yew Tree. First it may be a 'Igh Tree, but it is a Yew Tree. It is either a He Tree or a She Tree. If small, it represents the first person plural by being a "Wee Tree:" the second person plural is the Manager and Manageress of the Haymarket, "Ye Trees;" and the third person plural would be expressed by a Devonshire Gardener indicating this talented couple as "They Trees."

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TEE, TEE, ONLY TEE!

(_SONG OF THE GOLF ENTHUSIAST. AFTER THOMAS MOORE_.)

AIR--"_Thee, thee, only thee_."

The dawn of morn, the daylight's sinking, Shall find me on the Links, and thinking Of Tee, Tee, only Tee! When rivals meet upon the ground, The Putting-green's a realm enchanted, Nay, in Society's giddy round My soul, (like Tooting's thralls) is haunted By Tee, Tee, only Tee!'

For that at early morn I waken, And swiftly bolt my eggs and bacon, For Tee, Tee, only Tee! I'm game to start all in the dark To the Links hurrying--resting never. The Caddie yawns, but, like a lark, I halt not, heed not, hastening ever To Tee, Tee, only Tee!

Of chilly fog I am no funker, I'll brave the very biggest bunker For Tee, Tee, only Tee! A spell that nought on earth can break Holds me. Golf's charms can ne'er be _spoken_; But late I'll sleep, and early wake, Of loyalty be this my token, To Tee, Tee, only Tee!

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INNS AND OUTS.

NO. II.--THE HEAD-WETTER.

I entitle him as self-pronounced. If "Mr." is the Grand-Hôtel Jupiter, the Head-Waiter is its Mercury. Nothing modern is so versatile as the Head-Waiter. The first thing about the Head-Waiter is his cigars. These are covered with tinsel and colours: very gay--almost as gay as the Head-Waiter. They are of unpronounceable and unknown brands. They vary in price and size, but agree in flavour--liquorice, tempered by ink. Like the fabled fruit, they crumble to ashes in your mouth. If you are only a bird of passage, you will often find a box or so in your room. "Great opportunity--veritable Pestarenas of Nockudaun--one whole box for a sovereign English," the Head-Waiter assures you. The memory of that man is astounding; he remembers all the numbers, all the wines, all the names, and all the Lady's-maids. For he is a bit of a _Leporello_, is the Head-Waiter.

After dinner, where he takes a dozen orders, makes a dozen recommendations, and tells a dozen lies at once, you may see him philandering by the Lake with MARY ANN, JEANETTE, and KLARA, all jealous, and all adoring, teaching each the language of the other, and all the art of love. I have often envied him. The Head-Waiter's life is a "happy one." He is ubiquitous; Egypt, The Riviera, Switzerland, and Italy, see him by turns; in each he has a white waistcoat, of which Mr. CHAMBERLAIN might be proud, infinite occupation, and infinite diversion; his nimbleness, his light-heartedness, his languages, and his cigars, are inexhaustible.

How we besiege him in the morning! "Luncheon, ADOLF, for a party of seven, in a basket--a _nice_ basket, you know--and don't forget the corkscrew." "Yes, yes, I know--and you take the bottle-bier--it is much better nor the warne. Ha! Ha!" What a laugh!--a roguish, child-like merriment of a Greek-godlike character--or want of it. Old Ladies talk to him quite trustingly at first sight; it's "ADOLF, _have_ you such a thing as a bottle of gum--_gummi_, gum, you understand"; or, "_Could_ you get me another cushion"? He can, and does. As for the children, they love him; he romps with them, and does conjuring tricks, and warbles innumerable songs. That man gets through more in one day than the Prime Minister of England--and, between you and me, I believe he is fully as capable--and yet he finds time to write a letter to his old mother at Hamburg--I have seen him do it. Perhaps it was about the cigars! The only people who hate ADOLF are the Under-Waiters; he rules them with a rod of iron, marshalling their heated battalions at _table d'hôte_, and plundering them of their sweethearts; if he breaks anything (hearts included), it is they who have to pay. It is ADOLF's only weakness--he is a bully to underlings of his own trade. But then he has been an Under-Waiter once himself, and suffering brutalises; however, he is outside the sphere of morality, and I could pardon him almost anything.

From time to time his fascinations induce an Englishman or Englishwoman to take this treasure home as a servant. But ADOLF in livery, and ADOLF with his magic order-book, are two very different people. Little things are missing; he becomes quarrelsome; the gipsy-spirit returns--and he is off again, blithe as ever, on his travels. "London very naice," he says, as you buy that infernal Pestarena; "Porebier, very naise; 'Ampton Court, very naise; I know dem, hein? But, is no sunshine, no air, no gaiety." And ADOLF cannot exist without sunshine, air, and gaiety. Also he prefers being his own master, which, as Head-Waiter, he practically is.

How insinuating he is about the food, "Some naice fishes? Dey was laiving dis morning." And then, how accommodating! I was once in the Grand Hôtel during the usual "exceptional season," when it rained unintermittently for a fortnight; the place was empty; "tristeful," as ADOLF styled it. The genius played billiards with me every day, and always won, though I rather fancy myself; and then how mindful he is of your individual bettings. "I gif you dis place by de window--_to do you joy_!" he ejaculates. The simple creature, he is constantly trying to "make you please."

I always present ADOLF with ten shillings--five on arrival, and five on departure. This procures me many harmless little privileges; and when old BROWN calls him an impertinent brute, I know that BROWN and ten shillings are difficult to part.

There is nothing ADOLF will not do for you for a sovereign--but I cannot run to this; and yet this is the impression he has made.

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* * * * *

AN OLD AND NEW PEER.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Look here! I've done good service in my time, and no one likes to see himself deprived of an honoured title, or forced to take a back seat. I've been trodden under-foot over and over again--but I've borne it with fortitude, and never, never given way. Now, what do I hear? That a Gentleman, a Government Whip, for whom I have the highest esteem and respect, is now to assume the title which, by right of position, place, time, and prescription, belongs to me, and _to me only_, I can bear much, but, after so many years of devoted service, during which, with all my opportunities, I have never once made any attempt to leave my place to go higher up, or to go lower down, or, in either case, to go with the tide, I cannot, and, indeed, will not, yield my title to anyone, however good and useful to his Party he may have been, but proudly declaring myself as good as any "Sprig of Nobility," even as this one who cometh up as a Flower, I beg, protestingly, to remind the world at large that I am "_Nulli Secundus_," and _de facto et dejure_,

THE ONLY BATTERSEA PEER.

P.S.--Spell it with an "i" or "e," it's all one. If my "i" is put out, and "_he_" has got in instead, that's a mere quibble or quebble.

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MEMBERS WE SHALL MISS.

Our Old Parliamentary Artistic Hand been at it again; looking with eyesight blurred with sorrow on familiar forms of some Members stranded at General Election. Dismembered, and, for some time at least, not to be remembered. COWLEY LAMBERT always been a rover. Went Midland Circuit for short time, and having made the Circuit, made for home. Then he accomplished "A Trip to Cashmere and Ladak." Opportunity now for varying itinerary, and making a "Trip to Ladak and Cashmere." Must be moving somewhere. Wrote himself down in _Dod_ "a Progressive Conservative." Has now progressed out of sight of the Chair. This particular CAMPBELL is neither coming nor going. He's gone.

PULESTON seems quite pleased to find LLEWELLYN sitting there, all unconscious of his doom. PULESTON a little astonished himself when things went bad at Carnarvon. Only short time ago made Constable of Castle; thought P.C. PULESTON sure to come in at head of poll; but, "from information received," appears he didn't.

Observe the eye of HAVELOCK-ALLAN on the alert. He cannot see behind his back, but instinctively knows there is an Irish Member in the vicinity. His teeth close, his moustache curls, his eyes glare. He once publicly, in course of debate, sat upon an Irish Member; not metaphorically, but physically. Irish Member, when he wriggled from under, appealed to SPEAKER on point of order. SPEAKER ruled proceeding decidedly out of order. "But I sat on him, TOBY, dear boy," HAVELOCK said, triumphantly; "and I shall retain the impression to end of my life."

"So will he," I observed, when HAVELOCK was safe out of hearing. He doesn't like retorts.

The sketch of BAUMANN evidently taken at the moment he heard the announcement of poll at North Salford. Seems to have knocked him rather of a heap. Was known in House as Cupid's Bowman; a smart able, useful Member, whom we shall all be glad to see back again.

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"'Over the Hills and far away!' follow yours faithfully CLEMENT SCOTT." This is the full title, and signed advice to the public given on the frontispiece of his little shilling book published by EGLINTON. It is dedicated to Sir EDWARD LAWSON--"right thing to do my boy!"--and appropriately so, as if the Baron's memory runneth not to the contrary, most if not all the articles in this author's little holiday-book have appeared at some time or other in the _D.T._, and do not suffer any D.T.rioration by being bound up together in this shilling volume. It tells of a visit to Hayling, where he picked up health, strength, and an aspirate, when he went there ailing; he tells of Suffolk, where a branch of the Great Punchian Family is settled, known as The Suffolk Punches; he prattles of _Honeymoon Land_, where he met the man with seven wives, each of whom had a cat, and to each cat there was a kit, and to each wife a kit too, it is to be hoped, in the shape otherwise of a _trousseau_, and of many other pleasant restful places and refreshing jaunts he tells delightfully. "But of all the pleasant places in which his lines have fallen, commend me," quoth the Baron,--"and the lines he has written will send many to these pleasant places--(But O the Trippers!)--of all these give me the _Flower Farm at Holy Vale_ and the _Valley of Ferns_." If the reader cannot go to all the sweet resorts herein mentioned, let him be induced by the first article to visit _Holy Vale_, and he will find CLEMENT SCOTT an admirable guide for "the Scilly Season." Of course our NOT-YET-DUN-SCOTUS hath visited the Cyril-Flower-Farm on the Norfolk Coast. Advice: Stand not on the money-order of your going, but go at once, and stop there. As to money, remember your Uncle dwells in Poppy Land, quoth their true friend,

THE TRAVELLED BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

P.S.--A youthful shootist bought the Poppyland book because he thought that it would tell him all about where to go popping. Also a bashful suitor was misled by the title, hoping that in Poppy Land he would learn how to "Pop--the question." The Learned Author has not said one word about the "weasels that go pop," which, of course, are natives of Poppy Land.

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"THE RIFT WITHIN THE LUTE."

It surely sounds a pretty phrase, Some pöesy for woe it wins, Commemorating roundelays And troubadours and mandolins: We seem to view some minstrel-boy Beside his shattered music mute, The shattered string, the ruined joy-- The Rift within the Lute.

How swift the slip from tune to twang! Sweets bitter grow, as aye they did; For e'en the Roman poet sang "_Surgit amari aliquid_." Our pigmy worries turn us grey; And sorrows fierce are less acute; Our hearts are riddled every day With Rifts within the Lute.

You envy FORTUNATUS--rich-- A charming bride--subservient friends. To rival him were something which The dream of Avarice transcends. That charming bride a mother owns Whom FORTUNATUS brands a brute: She mars his life's entrancing tones-- His Rift within the Lute!

Then, PEREGRINE--he journeys far; Unshackled, he by toil's routine: By turns he quaffs a samovar Or sherbet, as he shifts his scene. "Strong as a horse!"--ah! there's the string That snaps asunder--"to recruit." He wanders, manufacturing A Rift within his Lute.

And DULCINEA! What a life! Adoring crowds, adornments rare And many fain to call her wife, And sue her smiles in Belgrave Square. And yet her Fetch-and-carry swears He heard her, while he pressed his suit, Sigh, "Bored to desperation!"--there's A Rift within that Lute.

What need more trivial ills to quote, The freshly-furnished house that shines, The coxcomb's fashionable coat, Both brushed and polished "to the nines," Both yielding to some fatal flaw; A crack; a fiend who plays the flute; Both, both examples of the law Of Rift within the Lute.

Whate'er the dulcet instrument We favour, still the lilt will stop; And with a gorgeous chalice blent Oft lurks the tiny poisoned drop. I'm not so spry myself to-night; I'll try a dose of arrowroot. You'll own that Indigestion's quite A Rift in any Lute!

* * * * *

"WALKER ART GALLERY."--Show commences this week at Liverpool. _The_ WALKER was a Genius. But is this show all "Walker," or the genuine article? Has Mr. J.L. TOOLE, of _Walker, London_, anything to do with it? No doubt it's quite "'O.K.' WALKER, Liverpool."

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POLITICAL PRIZE RING RIDDLE.--Why was the win of the Gladstonian Party at Newcastle like the triumph of a single-fisted pugilist over his two-handed opponent? Because the victory was achieved with one "MORLEY."

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