Chapter 2

Sometimes, indeed, misfortune sharp The Journal would attend-- The funds would fail, and so the tale Remains without an end. Now, when I take a serial up, I cry, in accents vexed,-- "I've read enough--why _is_ the stuff _'Continued in our next'?"_

Ah well, the things we valued once Enliven us no more! (Remarks like these, if morals please, I've furnished by the score.) And should these verses but result In making you perplexed, You'll learn with glee _they_ will not be _"Continued in our next"!_

* * * * *

"Oh, these Christmas Bills!" cried PATERFAMILIAS. "That's what I do," rejoined IMPEY QUNIOUS. "My sentiments and practice precisely--'Owe these Christmas Bills'--and many others."

* * * * *

BUILDING THE SNOW MAN.

BILLY and JOHNNIE were two little boys, Who wearied of lessons, and tired of their toys. Says BILLY, "I've hit on an excellent plan; Let's go out in the cold, JOHN, and build a Snow Man!"

_Johnnie_ (_blowing his fingers_). Oh, I say, BILLY, isn't it cold, either?

_Billy_ (_stamping_). _Is_ it, JOHNNIE? I haven't noticed it myself.

_Johnnie._ Oh, you're as hard as nails, _you_ are. _My_ fingers are quite numb.

_Billy._ Then work away briskly. _That'll_ warm 'em! Snow's a bit less binding than I expected to find it. Result of the severe frost, I suppose. But peg away, and we shall podge it into shape yet, JOHNNIE.

_Johnnie._ Ye-e-e-s! (_Shivers_). But what--er--er--what pattern, or plan, or model, have we--that--is--er--have _you_--er--decided on, BILLY?

_Billy_ (_winking_). Well, that's as it happens, JOHNNIE! Remember the one we built in '86--eh?

_Johnnie_ (_shuddering_). I should think I did. Don't mean to say we're to go on _those_ lines again, BILLY?

_Billy._ I mean to _say_ nothing of the kind. Many things have happened since then, JOHNNIE. For one thing, we've had heaps of advice.

_Johnnie._ Hang it, yes! And where are the advisers? Standing aloof and criticising our work--_in advance_. Where's that bold, blusterous, bumptious Behemoth, BILL STEAD? Knew all about building Snow Men, _he_ did; had a private monopoly of omniscience in that, as in most other things, BILL had. And now he's licking creation into shape for six-pence a month, and shying stones at us whenever he sees a chance. Little cocksure LABBY, too! Oh, _he_'s a nice boy! If BILL takes all Knowledge for his province, HENRY considers himself sole proprietor of _Truth_, and he lets us _have_ Truth--_his_ Truth--every week at least--in hard chunks--that hurt horribly. All in pure friendliness, too, as the Bobby said when he knocked the boy down to save him from being run over. Gr-r-r-r! Believe he's hiding behind the hedge there, with a pile of hard snowballs to pelt our Man out of shape as soon as we've licked him into it--if ever we do. TEDDY REED, too, _he_'s turned nasty, though he _does_ come from "gallant little Wales;" and now here's WALLACE, the Scotch boy--though _he_ was all right anyhow!--cutting up rough at the last moment, and complaining of our Snow Man (which they've all been howling for for six years), because he fancies its head is likely to be a little too Hibernian for his Caledonian taste! Oh, they're a nice loyal, grateful lot, BILLY! And where are the Irish bhoys themselves, in whose interests we are freezing our fingers and nipping our noses? Standing off-and-on, as it were, bickering like blazes among themselves, and only uniting to land _us_ a nasty one now and then--just to encourage us!

_Billy_ (_patting and punching away vigorously_). Loyal? Grateful? Ah, JOHNNIE, you don't understand 'em as well as I do. Cold has got on your liver. You're a brave boy, JOHNNIE, but just a bit bilious. Building Snow Men isn't just like arranging bouquets, my boy. Let them bicker, JOHNNIE, and _listen to what they say_! It may all come in handy by-and-by. We've had gratuitous advice and volunteer plans all round, from ARTY BALFOUR and JOEY CHAMBERLAIN, as well as HENRY, and TEDDY, and TIM and JOHN E., and the rest of 'em. Let them talk whilst we build, JOHNNIE. 'Tis a cold, uncomfortable job, I admit; and whether "friendly" advice or hostile ammunition will do us the most damage I hardly know--yet. Fierce foes are sometimes easier to deal with than friendly funkers. A "Thunderer" in open opposition affrights a true Titan less than a treacherous Thersites in one's own camp. But, JOHNNIE, we've got to build up this Snow Man somehow, and on some plan! I only hope (_entre nous_, JOHNNIE) that a thaw won't set in, and melt it out of form and feature before it is fairly finished!

[_Left hard at it._

* * * * *

* * * * *

Great consternation at hearing of the arrest of "M. BLONDIN" in connection with the Panama scandals. Of course there can be only _one_ BLONDIN, and some wiseacres at once applied the proverb about "Give him enough rope," &c. But BLONDIN never fell. It was quite another BLONDIN. The Hero of Niagara was not the Villain of the Panama piece--if villain he turn out to be. BLONDIN is still performing; always walking soberly, though elevated, on the rope that is quite tight. Maybe the rope gets tighter than ever at this jovial period, but BLONDIN, _the_ BLONDIN, our BLONDIN'S acts are in the sight of everybody, his proceedings are intelligible to all, though far above the heads of the people.

***

Still, whatever financial accident may have happened to M. BLONDIN, he has always kept his balance--on the rope.

* * * * *

TO CHLORINDA.

(_With a Fan._)

All in your glory you to-night Will dance, and me they don't invite Your charms to scan; And, as a seal might send its skin To please the girl it may not win, I send a fan.

Behind this fan some other man Your hand will hold; Your fearless eyes, so bright and brown, Will hide their gladness, glancing down, No longer cold. And your pale, perfect cheek will take That colour for another's sake, I ne'er controlled,-- Yet, ere you sleep, stray thoughts will creep To days of old.

Of old! For in a single day, When love first gilds a maiden's way, The world grows new; And from that new world you will send Sweet pity to the absent friend Who so loved you.

Loved--for my love will wither then; I cannot share with other men The dear delight That dwells in your austerest tone, That latent hope of joys unknown-- Though now you will not be my own, Some day you might.

My trusted little friend of yore, Of course you'd think my love a bore, It's not romantic: I've passed beyond the football stage, And e'en despair is saved by age From growing frantic.

No, like a veteran grim and grey, With sling and crutch, I am but fit to watch the fray Where, in the world-old, witching way, In other hands your fingers stay With lingering touch, That may mean nothing, or it may Mean, oh! so much.

I'll wed some woman, prim of face, Who'll duly fill the housewife's place, And with her hard, domestic grace Illusions scatter; But sometimes when the stars are full, While at my season'd pipe I pull, I'll see my little love once more, With brilliant lovers by the score, Whose tributes flatter. And, thinking of the light gone by, Murmur with philosophic sigh, "It doesn't matter."

And then, perchance, this fan you'll find, When all the new romance is over. Sweet, may you ne'er with troubled mind Half wish you never had resigned, Your truest lover.

* * * * *

Last week, Dr. ADLER gave, as appears by the extracts, an excellent Lecture on "Jewish Wit and Humour." He himself is well known as the _The Jew d'Esprit_.

* * * * *

TEMPORARY CHANGE OF NAME.--Will Poplar Hospital be styled, "Un-pop'lar Hospital?"

* * * * *

"THE VERY LATEST."

["A Cookery Autograph-book is the last idea. Each friend is supposed to write a practical recipe for a dainty dish above his or her signature."

_The Graphic._]

No, MABEL, no;--though your behest I always heed with rapt attention, Most fervently I must protest Against this horrible invention; Your word has hitherto been law, But this appears the final straw!

Obedient to imperious looks, I've had to write, at your suggestion, The answers in confession-books To many an idiotic question; I'll vow my favourite tint is blue (The colour mostly worn by you);

I'll gladly draw a fancy sketch, I'll make acrostics with elation, I'll write you verses at a stretch, Or give my views on vaccination; But, even to fulfil your wishes, I cannot manufacture dishes!

I know, in theory, how to make The matutinal tea and coffee, And, when at school, I used to bake A gruesome mess described as toffee; But these, which form my whole _cuisine_, Are scarce the kind of thing you mean.

Of course I'd learn some more by heart, If this could gain me your affection, But fear the anguish on your part Produced by faulty recollection; On me, my MABEL, please to look As lover only--not as Cook!

* * * * *

CRINOLINE.

Rumour whispers, so we glean From the papers, there have been Thoughts of bringing on the scene This mad, monstrous, metal screen, Hiding woman's graceful mien. Better Jewish gabardine Than, thus swelled out, satin's sheen! Vilest garment ever seen! Form unknown in things terrene; Even monsters pliocene Were not so ill-shaped, I ween. Women wearing this machine, Were they fat or were they lean-- Small as WORDSWORTH'S celandine, Large as sail that's called lateen-- Simply swept the pavement clean: Hapless man was crushed between Flat as any tinned sardine. Thing to rouse a Bishop's spleen, Make a Canon or a Dean Speak in language not serene. We must all be very green, And our senses not too keen, If we can't say what we mean, Write in paper, magazine, Send petitions to the QUEEN, Get the House to intervene. Paris fashion's transmarine-- Let us stop by quarantine Catastrophic Crinoline!

* * * * *

"More butter is coming from Victoria," says the _P. M. G._, "to the Mother Country." Our Colonies are not given to supplying us with this article of food to any great extent. It is generally the Mother Country that has buttered the Colonies.

* * * * *

ON THREE POETS.

(_By the Fourth Party._)

SWINBURNE, AUSTIN, MORRIS, Bardic busybodies, Threnodies they wrote:-- _They_ were the Three Noddies!

* * * * *

Mrs. R. says that, in this cold weather, whenever she wants to know if there is to be a change, she consults her _thaw_mometer.

* * * * *

The amusing article, "A Man's Thoughts on Marriage," ought not to have appeared in _The Gentleman_, but in the _United Service Magazine_. This is evident.

* * * * *

CONVERSATIONAL HINTS FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS.

Before I proceed with the order of subjects which I have proposed to myself as the proper one to follow, I feel that I must revert for a moment to the question of "ladies at lunch." You may remember that some two or three weeks ago I ventured to offer some observations on this topic. Dear ladies, you can read for yourselves the winged words in which your adoring _Punch_ settled the matter. "By all means," I said, "come to lunch, if you must." What can be plainer or more direct? Bless your pretty, pouting faces, I am not responsible for the characters of my fellow-men, nor for the harsh language they use. If they behave like boors, and show an incomprehensible distaste for your delightful presence, am I, your constant friend, to be blamed? I cannot alter the nature of these barbarians. But what has happened since I published an article which had, at any rate, the merit of truthful portraiture? Why, I have been overwhelmed with epistolary reproaches in every variety of feminine hand-writing. "A CAREFUL MOTHER" writes from Dorset--a locality hitherto associated in my mind with butter rather than with blame--to protest that she has been so horrified by my cynical tone, that she does not intend to take me in any longer. She adds, that "_Punch_ has laid upon my drawing-room table for more than thirty years." Heavens, that I should have been so deeply, so ungrammatically, honoured without knowing it! Am I no longer to recline amid photograph albums, gift-books, and flower-vases, upon that sacred table? And are you, Madam, to spite a face which has always, I am certain, beamed upon me with a kindly consideration, by depriving it wantonly of its adorning and necessary nose. Heaven forbid! Withdraw for both our sakes that rash decision, while there is yet time, and restore me to my wonted place in your affections, and your drawing-room.

But all are not like this. Here, for instance, is a sensible and temperate commentary, which it gives me pleasure to quote word for word as it was written:--

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I want to tell you that, although I am what one of your friends called "a solid woman," and ought to feel _deeply_ hurt by what you said about ladies at lunch, yet I liked that article the best. I think it was _awfully_ good. But don't you think you are all rather hard on ladies at shooting-boxes? My idea is that there ought to be some new rules about shooting-parties. At present, ladies are asked to amuse the men--at least that is my experience--and it is rather hard they may not sometimes go on the moors, if they want to. But, at the same time, I _quite_ understand that they are horribly in the way, and I am not surprised that the men don't want women about them when they are shooting. But couldn't they arrange to have a day now and then, when they could shoot all the morning, and devote themselves to amusing the women on the moors after lunch? Otherwise, I think there ought to be a rule that no women are to be invited to shooting-boxes. It is generally very dull for the women, and I feel sure the men would be quite as happy without them. I suppose the host might want his wife to be there, to look after things; but _she ought to strike_, and ask her lady-friends to do the same; and then they could go abroad, or to some jolly place, and enjoy themselves in their own way. Really we often get quite angry--at least I do--when men treat us as if we were so many dolls, and patronise us in their heavy way, and expect us to believe that the world was made entirely for them and their shooting-parties. There must be more give and take. And, if _we_ are to give you our sympathy and attention, _you_ must take our companionship a little oftener. We get so dull when we are all together.

Your sincere admirer, A LADY LUNCHER.

I confess this simple letter touched an answering chord in my heart. I scarcely knew how to answer it. At last a brilliant thought struck me. I would show it to my tame Hussar-Captain, SHABRACK. That gallant son of Mars is not only a good sportsman, but he has, in common with many of his brother officers, the reputation of being a dashing, but discriminating worshipper at the shrine of beauty. At military and hunt balls the Captain is a stalwart performer, a despiser of mere programme engagements, and an invincible cutter-out of timid youths who venture to put forward their claims to a dance that the Captain has mentally reserved for himself. The mystery is how he has escaped scathless into what his friends now consider to be assured bachelor-hood. Most of his contemporaries, roystering, healthy, and seemingly flinty-hearted fellows, all of them, have long since gone down, one after another, before some soft and smiling little being, and are now trying to fit their incomes to the keep of perambulators, as well as of dog-carts. But SHABRACK has escaped. I found him at his Club, and showed him the letter, requesting him at the same time to tell me what he thought of it. I think he was flattered by my appeal, for he insisted on my immediate acceptance of a cigar six inches long, and proposed to me a tempting list of varied drinks. The Captain read the letter through twice carefully, and thus took up his parable:--

"Look here, my son, don't you be put off by what the little woman says. She don't mean half of it. Get the hostess to strike!"--here he laughed loudly--"now that's a real good 'un. Why, they haven't got it in them. Fact is, they can't stand one another's company. She says as much, don't she? 'We get so dull when we are all together.' Well, that scarcely looks like goin' off on the strike together, does it? Don't you be alarmed, old quill-driver, they'll never run a strike of that kind for more than a day. They'll all come troopin' back, beggin' to be forgiven, and all that, and, by gum, we shall have to take 'em back too, just as we're all congratulatin' ourselves that we shan't have to go to any more blessed pic-nics. That's a woman's idea of enjoyin' herself in the country--nothin' but one round of pic-nics. I give you my word, when I was stayin' with old FRED DERRIMAN, in Perthshire, they reg'larly mapped out the whole place for pic-nics, and I'm dashed if they didn't spoil our best day's drivin by pic-nickin' in, 'oh, such a sweet place.' Truth is, they can't get along without us, my son, only they won't admit it, bless 'em! And, after all, we're better off when they're in the house, I'm bound to confess; so I don't mind lettin' 'em have a pic-nic or two, just to keep 'em sweet. Them's my sentiments, old cock, and you're welcome to them."

I thanked the Captain for his courtesy, and withdrew. But if the whole thing is merely a matter of pic-nics, it is far simpler than I imagined.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"Have you read," asks one of the Baron's Assistants of his Chief, "Miss BRADDON's Christmas Annual? It is entitled, _The Misletoe Bough_, and contains some of the best short stories I have read lately. One of them, 'In Mr. CARTWRIGHT's Library,' is a remarkable combination of quaint, dry humour, and literary skill. Who is the clever author? But here are other stories, too, that interest and please, and, not least among them, a charming sketch, by the ever welcome editress. Bravo, Miss BRADDON!

"_Brownies and Rose-leaves_, by ROMA WHITE (INNES & CO.), is a pretty little book, prettily written, prettily illustrated by LESLIE BROOKE, and prettily bound," he continues. "Miss WHITE has a charming knack of writing musical verse, simple, rhythmical, delightful. To children and their parents, I say, take my tip (the only one parents will get at this season), and read ROMA WHITE's dainty, delicate, fresh and breezy book."

* * * * *

ROBIN POOR FELLOW!

_Robin Goodfellow_, by Mr. CARTON, is not a brilliant play, as its dialogue lacks epigrammatic sparkle: neither is it an interesting play, as the plot, such as it is, is too weak for words,--which, by the way, at once accounts for the absence of the sparkle above-mentioned.

Three questions must have occurred to those who have already seen the play, and which those who may hereafter see it will be sure to ask themselves,--and they are these:--

First. Why should _Grace's_ father, _Valentine Barbrook_, tell her of the means by which he had brought about the betrothal of _Hugh Rokeby_ to _Constance_?

Secondly. This being so, why allow six weeks to elapse when a word from the one girl, who knows, to the other, who doesn't, would explain everything?

Thirdly. If a sudden shock would kill the grandmother, surely, in the course of six weeks, _Grace_ would have found out that her shortest and best way was to tell the truth to her cousin, without mentioning it to the old lady.

If in doubt, why didn't she confide in the Doctor, who would at once have told her whether the nature of the communication she had to make was of a sufficiently startling nature to kill the old lady right off or not?

The fact is, it was necessary to keep the lover, _Mr. Stanley Trevenen_, away for some time, in order to allow of there being a glimmer of probability in the announcement of his having thrown over the girl to whom he is devotedly attached, and having married somebody else whom he met abroad. "Now," says the dramatist, "what is the shortest possible space of time I can allow for this? Ahem!--say a month." So he gives him a month. "Then," says he, next, "what is the shortest possible time we can allow for an engagement and a marriage? Say six weeks. Good. Six weeks be it. Only, hang it, this muddle has to last for six weeks! Well, it can't be helped. I can't give any more trouble to the bothering plot; and, as after all, there's a capital character for Mr. HARE, and not at all a bad one for Miss RORKE, with a fairish one for FORBES ROBERTSON, why, if Mr. HARE will accept the play, and do it, I should say that, cast and played as it will be, it is pretty sure to be a success."