ACT IV.

SCENERY AND COSTUME OF THE STAGE

We must assume there is something very peculiar in the rural landscapes and the town residences inhabited by the dramatic population, if the haunts of their rustics and the dwelling-places of their citizens are to be judged by the representations of these places which we see upon the British stage. The dramatic idea of the country consists usually of a series of set pieces, backed by a six-inch deal bridge, surmounting a two-foot waterfall, and leading to a profile cottage of such diminutive dimensions that when the feet of any one entering it are on the basement, his head soars into the second story, and he cannot, without doubling himself completely up, go either in or out of the door. In some cases the cottages have no pretension to habitable qualities, but are simply “made out” of a single piece of canvas, on which a clearly “impracticable” window is painted, and which the business of the scene does not require to be opened, the cottage being only needed as the cue for some song or sentiment, such as “Ah! that humble cot--how its aspect makes me sigh for Home, Sweet Home!” or, “The sight of that lowly roof makes me feel no envy for pampered pride in its palace, or venal villany in its villa; for I am convinced more and more of the beautiful truth, that it is in the cottage alone contentment can be found.”

Sometimes there is, by way of background, a castle, frightfully foreshortened, with its battlements half a yard high, and its towers towering among the sky-borders, while its foundations rest on a rock no higher than the top of the low comedian’s hat; but the structure is sufficient to admit of its being apostrophized by some young gentleman in hessians and a chocolate surtout as “Deserted halls of my ancestors, whose pavements have rung to the clang of the usurper’s hoof, and whose donjon-keep has echoed to the noisy revels of a stranger band.” When the occasion is an operatic one, the distant castle forms an admirable subject for something like the following--

RECITATIVE.

Long cherished pile--home of my ancient sires, Your aspect kindles all my youthful fires; And when your sainted towers salute mine eyes, Within my breast revengeful feelings rise.

Every playgoer is familiar with the “mossy bank” of dramatic rural scenery, with one end slightly elevated for the head of the weary wayfarer or benighted traveller, and a bit of an old bolster craftily crammed underneath the canvas to complete the mossiness of the contrivance.

The town scenery of the stage is not less peculiar than its landscapes, and the exteriors are particularly adapted for teaching “what to avoid” to the youthful architect. If young _Dashington_ calls upon _Lord Toplofty_, the latter lounges lazily out of the first-floor French window, in which his head and shoulders are a pretty tight fit, while the former bears about the same proportion to the house that the peasant bears to the cottage we have already been speaking of. It is a singular fact that the inside of any one room is no sooner represented to us, than we find it to be much larger than the whole house when judged by its external appearance; and though the mansion itself may be only ten feet high from the basement to the tip of the topmost chimney-pot, the smallest apartment is found to be as wide as the wings are apart, and as lofty as the proscenium.

In costume, the stage presents some really astounding phenomena; and we have often been struck by the similarity of the dresses worn by the retainers of every country, every age, and indeed of almost every family. One would think that the word retainer referred to the fact of the same habiliments being always retained under all circumstances, whether the wearer happens to be a creature of the house of Hapsburg, a vassal of a Norman noble, or a member of a bellowing band of Swiss patriots, shouting such choruses as the following:--

Then onwards to freedom; Our tyrants shall know, No longer we need ’em; Let’s join in the blow: Yes, out let us weed ’em, And lay them all low. Oh! oh! oh! oh! oh!

While our blood In a flood We’ll freely let flow. Oh! oh! oh! oh! oh! _Echo (by the Prompter) in the mountains,_ Oh! oh! oh! oh!

_Punch._

ASS YOU LIKE IT

“Ass in præsenti.”--_Eton Latin Grammar._

The forthcoming show of donkeys promises to be a great success. The only difficulty that seems to us likely to embarrass the manager is the selection of a locality large enough for the exhibition. If but a tenth part of the asses in the metropolis make an exhibition of themselves on this, as they are apt to do on ordinary occasions, nothing smaller than the grounds of the Crystal Palace or the Alexandra Park could possibly accommodate them.

The following, we believe, are already entered:--

An egregious ass, that believes in the speedy subjugation of the Confederates by the Federals in America.

An awful donkey, who prefers Tupper to Tennyson.

An old ass, who, by means of false teeth, tight waist, a wig, and rouge, imagines himself a lady-killer.

A young ass, who, by smoking strong cigars until he is sick, imagines himself manly.

Several thundering donkeys, who are always sending money anonymously to the Chancellor of the Exchequer for unpaid income-tax.

A still larger number of even more hopeless asses, who patronize quack-doctors, cheap, puffing tailors, delineators of character by handwriting, and other advertising swindles.

An irreclaimable ass (supposed to be the only one living), who does not see any merit in FUN. The greatest ass alive.

There are several others we could mention, but the astounding asinine qualities of the last-named donkey have quite taken away our breath. In the forthcoming “competitive examination, of donkeys,” let him by all means bear away the prize!

_Fun_, 1863.

* * * * *

HAMLET’S LAST SOLILOQUY

(From _Fun_, 1863.)

Alas! alas! and hath it come to this, That I, no longer _Hamlet_, play the _Ghost_? And such a _Ghost_! No old time-honoured vision, In coat of pasteboard trimm’d with gleaming foil, With whiten’d visage, and with grizzled wig. But a mere base delusion of the eye; A mirror’d image in a showman’s glass, A conjuror’s trick to set a crowd agape, I stand, forsooth, upon an English stage To watch a strutting Frenchman ape my prince! I to be such a _Ghost_ as this? Yes, I, Who’ve been the _Hamlet_ of some score of years; Whose face, shape, elocution, manner, all Mark me the hero’s true and very self! _I_ play the _Ghost_? For me the _Ghost_ may go To his “sulphureous and”--I mean elsewhere. Help me! ye Britons! from the Wells of Sadler! Help me! ye powers of earthly Chancery! Keen-sighted Wood, and most judicious Westbury, Help me! I cry. It is your Phelps that calls!

[_Rushes out at the rate of £40 a week._

AT THE MASQUERADE

I know ’twas not the proper thing to do, And yet I thought it would be jolly too, To go alone to that swell masquerade, And so I did it. Well my plans were laid. My wife of my intentions naught did know. I told her, out of town I had to go, And she believed me. Leaving her to stay At home, I went and danced in costume gay. I had been at the ball an hour or so, When some one introduced a domino. I saw that she was plump and graceful, and She had a pretty little foot and hand. Her eyes, I noticed, flashed like diamonds bright, Though plump, she waltzed divinely; feather light, And then she flirted with most perfect art, It isn’t singular I lost my heart. Soon my sweet charmer I began to ask To step into an alcove and unmask! To let me see the lovely face I’d swear Was hid behind that mask. My lady fair At first refused. I pleaded long and hard; Declared my life forever would be marred, Unless her cruelty she would relent. My pleading won, at last, a shy consent. Her face she would permit my eyes to view, If I unmasked, the selfsame instant; too. The dancing-hall had alcoves all around, And soon in one of these ourselves we found; The alcove was, for two, the proper size, And passing dancers would not recognize You, for the light was dim within the niche, And flowers, about, their perfume gave. My witch Her mask removed. I meantime did the same. “My wife!” “My husband!” So we did exclaim. The truth we neither of us had mistrusted, And each was disappointed and disgusted.

THE AMATEUR FLUTE-PLAYER

Hear the fluter with his flute, Silver flute! Oh, what a world of wailing is awakened by its toot! How it demi-semi-quavers, On the maddened air of night! And defieth all endeavours To escape the sound or sight Of the flute, flute, flute, With its tootle, tootle, toot, With reiterated tootings of exasperated toots. The long-protracted tootings of agonizing toots, Of the flute, flute, flute, flute, Flute, flute, flute, And the wheezing and the spittings of its toots.

Should he get that other flute-- Golden flute-- Oh, what a deeper anguish will its presence institoot! How his eyes to heaven he’ll raise As he plays All the days! How he’ll stop us on our ways With its praise; And the people--oh, the people! That don’t live up in the steeple, But inhabit Christian parlours Where he visiteth and plays-- Where he plays, plays, plays In the cruellest of ways, And thinks we ought to listen, And expects us to be mute, Who would rather have the earache Than the music of his flute-- Of his flute, flute, flute, And the tooting of his toot-- Of the toot wherein he tooteleth his agonizing toot Of the fluet, fluit, floot. Phlute, phlewt, phlewght, And the tootle-tootle-tooting of his toot.

ONLY SEVEN

A PASTORAL STORY, AFTER WORDSWORTH.

I marvelled why that simple child Made faces like the Gorgons, And clapt its hands, with moanings wild, On its digestive organs.

Adopting a parental tone, I asked her why she cried, The damsel answered with a groan, “I’ve got a pain inside.”

“I thought it would have sent me mad Last night about eleven”; Said I, “What is it makes you bad? How many apples have you had?” She answered, “Only seven!”

“And are you sure you took no more, My little maid?” quoth I. “Oh! please, sir, mother gave me four, “But _they_ were in a pie!”

“If that’s the case,” I stammered out, “Of course you’ve had eleven”; The maiden answered with a pout, “I ain’t had more nor seven!”

I wondered hugely what she meant, And said, “I’m bad at riddles, But I know where little girls are sent For telling taradiddles.

“Now, if you don’t reform,” said I, “You’ll never go to heaven.” But all in vain; each time I cry, That little idiot makes reply, “I ain’t had more nor seven!”

POSTSCRIPT.

To borrow Wordsworth’s name was wrong, Or slightly misapplied; And so I’d better call my song, “Lines after Ache-inside.”

_Fun_, 1865.

LYCEUM LYRICS

(_After Ben Jonson._)

It is not being underlined, Six months that leaves the rest behind; Or standing long a joke that makes us here Less valued by the public eye and ear. The “super” in his way Is happier, so they say, Although he fights for eighteenpence a night, Than he who has talents he can’t bring to light; In small proportions we tragedians see Who can attain what they would like to be.

(_After Herrick._)

Gather your laurels whilst ye may, The season on is flying, And make your audience smile to-day, To-morrow set them crying. A good tragedian, when there’s one, Much money may be getting, But longer dramas have a run The nearer he’s to fretting.

(_After Lovelace._)

Large type does not an actor make, Nor theatre-walls a cage, Minds unambitious then may take The salary they engage. If I can’t get the parts I love, At least, let me be free, Another theatre yet may prove My right to liberty.

--_Fun_, 1863.

THE POETS AT PLAY

Addison in his _Papers on Wit_ makes vigorous onslaught against “false wit.” “The first species of false wit which I have met with is venerable for its antiquity, and has produced several pieces which have lived very near as long as the _Iliad_ itself; I mean those short poems printed among the minor Greek poets, which resemble the figure of an egg, a pair of wings, an axe, a shepherd’s pipe, and an altar.”

Further on, he says, referring to these conceits, “the poetry was to contract or dilate itself according to the mould in which it was cast. In a word, the verses were to be cramped or extended to the dimensions of the frame that was prepared for them, and to undergo the fate of those persons whom the tyrant Procustes used to lodge in his iron bed; if they were too short he stretched them on a rack; and if they were too long he chopped off a part of their legs, till they fitted the couch which he had prepared for them.”

Most people accept this dictum of Addison as a final pronouncement on the distinction between true and false wit; but on further consideration it may be found that “much can be said on the other side.” Addison asserts that the matter must suffer if it has to be squeezed into a certain shape. This may be so, but it need not be much more so in the forming of a pair of wings in verse, than in the construction of a sonnet. Every sonnet, no matter how inspired, must follow an artificial measure, every poem, be it never so soulful, must have a definite number of feet in each of its lines and a preconceived arrangement; yet, no one advances the opinion that Scott was wasting his sense of poetry by casting it in the form of octo-syllabic verse, or that Shakespeare had a difficulty in fitting his thoughts to the measure of his sonnets or the blank verse of his plays.

* * * * *

The most that can be advanced against those poetic conceits of the kind condemned by Addison is that they appeal in a greater degree to the eye than to the ear, and while we may be conscious of their artificial nature we should also be catholic enough to admit their ingenuity, and when they are sufficiently amusing to provoke laughter, or excite a smile, they should not be denied the attributes of wit; for, after all, when we free ourselves from the suspicion of affectation, do we not agree that the chief end of wit is to amuse?

These remarks have been suggested to the writer by his discovering in one of his old scrap-books a little collection of curiosities of verse culled in Bookland byways “oompty” years ago. These do not consist of specimens of the minor Greek poets’ eccentricities, but in every case they are examples of what Addison would have unhesitatingly catalogued as “false wit”; and yet, not only are some of them genuinely amusing and others highly ingenious, but several display a painstaking which almost amounts to genius--if genius be “the capacity for taking pains.”

We can, for example, appreciate the immense industry of the author who set himself to compose a series, of verses in which the letter “e” should be entirely omitted, and the painstaking of the author will be yet further acknowledged when it is known that “e” is the most used letter in the English alphabet, the relative proportion of its use being 120 times to j 4, k 8, g 17, and i 40.

There are two such pieces among the writer’s literary curiosities and he regards them as, perhaps, the most unique. The first one is as follows--

John Knox was a man of wondrous might, And his words ran high and shrill, For bold and stout was his spirit bright, And strong was his stalwart will.

Kings sought in vain his mind to chain, And that giant brain to control, But naught on plain or stormy main Could daunt that mighty soul.

John would sit and sigh till morning cold Its shining lamp put out, For thoughts untold on his mind laid hold, And brought but pain and doubt.

But light at last on his soul was cast, Away sank pain and sorrow-- His soul is gay in a fair to-day And looks for a bright to-morrow.

The first word in the second line of the third stanza is evidently a misprint. “Night’s” is most likely the word used by the author, meaning that the coming of the morn extinguished the stars--

Night’s shining lights put out.

Here is the other specimen, which is even more ingenious than that just quoted, each stanza containing every member of the alphabet except the letter “e”--

Bold Nassaw quits his caravan A hazy mountain grot to scan; Climbs jaggy rocks to spy his way, Doth tax his sight, but far doth stray.

Not work of man nor sport of child Finds Nassaw in that mazy wild; Lax grow his joints, limbs toil in vain; Poor wight, why didst thou quit that plain?

Vainly for succour Nassaw calls; Know Zillah that thy Nassaw falls, But prowling wolf and fox may joy To quarry on thy Arab boy.

A happy thought is well worked out in the following quaint little _jeu d’esprit_ which the writer came across in an old magazine many years ago. If you read it line after line you will find the author cheerfully contemplating the prospect of matrimony; but if you only read each alternate line you will discover him to be a confirmed old bachelor--

I always did intend To take to me a wife, Single my life to spend Would grieve my very life.

It much delighteth me To think upon a bride, To live from woman free I can’t be satisfied.

A female, to my mind, The joy I can’t express, I ne’er expect to find So great in singleness.

A bachelor to live I never would agree, My mind I freely give A married man to be.

A somewhat common form of poetic conceit is the arranging into one intelligent poem of lines from a number of well-known poets and thus forming what may be called a mosaic of verses. I here print one of the best examples of this kind that I have come across; the author, like those of the “e”-less verses, is unknown to fame--

I only knew she came and went, _Powell._ Like troutlets in a pool; _Hood._ She was a phantom of delight, _Wordsworth._ And I was like a fool. _Eastman._

“One kiss, dear maid,” I said, and sighed, _Coleridge._ Out of those lips unshorn, _Longfellow._ She shook her ringlets round her head _Stoddard._ And laughed in merry scorn. _Tennyson._

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, _Tennyson._ You heard them, oh, my heart; _Alice Cary._ ’Tis twelve at night by the castle clock, _Coleridge._ Beloved, we must part. _Alice Cary._

“Come back, come back!” she cried in grief, _Campbell._ My eyes are dim with tears _Bayard Taylor._ How shall I live through all the days? _Osgood._ All through a hundred years? _T. S. Parry._

’Twas in the prime of summer time, _Hood._ She blessed me with her hand; _Hoyt._ We strayed together, deeply blest _Edwards._ Into the dreaming land. _Cornwall._

The laughing bridal roses blow, _Patmore._ To dress her dark-brown hair; _Bayard Taylor._ My heart is breaking with my woe, _Tennyson._ Most beautiful! Most rare! _Read._

I clasped it on her sweet, cold hand, _Browning._ The precious golden link! _Smith._ I calmed her fears, and she was calm, _Coleridge._ Drink, pretty creature, drink!” _Wordsworth._

And so I won my Genevieve, _Coleridge._ And walked in Paradise; _Hervey._ The fairest thing that ever grew _Wordsworth._ Atween me and the skies! _Osgood._

The composite poem thus formed may not be praised for beauty of thought, for absolute sequence of expression; but it is certainly a most ingenious composition and a monument of literary research.

The remarkable sibilance of the English language is cleverly exaggerated in the following lines, which are commended to the attention of those who lisp--

Susanna Snooks sings sad, sweet songs, she sees soft summer skies; Strange sunset shades sift silently--she somewhat sadly sighs. Soliloquizingly she strays, sweet songsters shyly sing. She sees slim spruces’ slanting shades surround some sparkling spring.

Still southward silently she strays. She spies shy Simon Slade. “Stop, Simon!” says Susanna Snooks. Still sifts sweet sunset’s shade. Shy Simon six snug satisfying squeezes slyly stole; Susanna snickered. Simon stayed. Sick, silly, spoony soul!

Susanna’s sire saw some shy, suspicious stranger stray. Saw Susan say, “Stop, Simon Slade.” Saw simple Simon stay. Stern sire sought some solid stick--serenely, slyly slipped. Susanna saw. She shrilly shrieked, “Skip, Simon!” Simon skipped.

Needless to say these diverting lines were written and published originally beyond the westering wave.

MOTLEY’S KINGDOM

BY BROBERT ROWNING.

There once was a time, long ago, When the sages were rulers, you know,

When men from all parts of the globe Would seek them, their wisdom to probe,

And ask their opinion (no counsel’s Like that which your lawyer in town sells.

But sapient and noble advice That now you can get at no price).

But the sages got terribly pestered, For those they advised for the best, erred

In doing their best, then in rages Laid all of the blame on the sages;

While now and then one (you ’twas rude’ll Allow) said each sage was a noodle!

Meanwhile, no less, morning and night From all parts of the earth, left and right.

From north, and from south, east, and west For advice--_gratis_--all the world prest.

Said the sages, “We’re too much admired! Let’s retire.” So the sages retired,

And then to extremes rushing hotly, Took cap and bells, bauble, and motley,

In _that_ disguise guided the throng, Not by showing the right but the wrong,

And found to their wonderment great ’Tis more easy to keep people straight

By lashing for errors they make Then showing the right road to take.

And this, don’t you see, is the way The whole world is governed to-day.

Men have long ceased the sages to pester But bow to the rule of the jester.

Well--_Ridentem quid dicere verum Vetat?_--If the people will hear ’um!

So, there, now my story is done-- And the moral! Why, that you see’s FUN.

_Fun_, 1866.

AN ILLUSTRATED EDITION OF THE POETS

POETS AND THEIR PATRONS

THE PAST.

Vast is the difference between the Poets’ Patron of the past and of the present period. Formerly the noble was the encourager of the lofty strains of inspiration, but nowadays Moses is the Mæcenas of the Muses. In times gone by the bard was accustomed to write lays to laud the lazy lordling, but now he sings pæans to the paletot, and invests the vest with the graceful trimmings of fancy.

The poet has turned puffer instead of parasite. Should another Pope arise, he would sing the praises of another Chesterfield; but instead of being the Earl of that name, it would be the wrapper he would take for the subject of his lucubrations. The following is a fair specimen of the style of thing to which a new Pope would most probably devote his poetical talents:--

THE PRESENT.

How happy is the new Mosaic cut! When Moses opens, let the rest be shut. Look at the coat! so dashing, yet refined, In front perfection, and the same behind; Body and skirt their equal distance keep, The collar not too narrow, nor too deep; Grace shines about it with enchanting beams, And finest workmanship cements the seams. Taste lurks in every fold, and--Gracious Heaven! You get the article for two pound seven. Let others to the western Schneiders fly, With eastern elegance ’tis vain to vie.

I.

A certain dismal desk I own comprises A literary morgue, a place of tears, Where manuscripts of divers shapes and sizes Repose--defiled with dust and canine ears. They lie, awaiting ultimate cremation, My slighted bantlings--poor, ill-treated pets! Embodiments of blighted aspiration And bitter editorial regrets!

II.

Which tale, which play, which poem is the poorest, Where all have often been condemned as poor, Which manuscript the most case-hardened tourist, Where all have been on many a fruitless tour, I cannot tell. Yet am I fain to wager That none have been the cause of so much ire As this--the stoutest, inkiest old stager, That, in my heart of hearts, I still admire!

III.

The epics that, by some elusive magic, Were turned at last to musical burlesques, The comedies that daily grew more tragic (Foredoomed to moulder in sepulchral skies); The bright libretto, worthy of a Gilbert, That shrunk into one lyric, which describes What passed between the “Earwig and the Filbert”-- These and their like I treasure up in tribes!

IV.

I have composed heroics and didactics, Completed thrilling dramas by the score, I have adopted mercenary tactics, And started lurid serials galore; But seldom could I pen them as I planned them; The plays developed strangely, scene by scene, Till I was forced, at length, to brand them As feeble skits on what they might have been!

V.

I would not be a virulent detractor Of all the editors who say me nay, Of each successful manager and actor Who has declined (with thanks) my strongest play; They may be men of taste and erudition, But, if they understand (and do they not?) The kind of thing in public requisition, The public must require the baldest rot?

VI.

My manuscripts! before I burn or rend you (Momentarily penitent and sane), Methinks I will be rash enough to send you Upon a _final_ journey once again! Your mute entreaties give me heart to fight on, With fixed intent to find the “open door.” My only difficulty is to light on Some quarter where you have not been before!

VII.

And what of these supremely dismal verses? They, too, shall be incontinently hurled-- Like many of their colour--on the mercies Of this unkind and unpoetic world. I will submit them, with a curt epistle, To some sad editor’s regretful eye, Sanguine, of course, yet, posting them, I’ll whistle The strains of “Au revoir, but not good-bye!”

A MAN I HATE

Of all the bores that, now and then, Society permits To talk to literary men, Or mix among the wits, The worst are those that _will_ devote Their little minds to anecdote.

I’ve sat and listened, I confess, To fools of many kinds, Including people who possess Encyclopædic minds. But oh! the very worst afloat Is he who takes to anecdote.

I like a man who makes a pun Or else a deep remark; I like philosophy or fun-- If only just a spark. But how I hate the muffs who gloat Inanely over anecdote.

I loathe a man who recollects A little thing he heard; Then tells a story and expects A grin at ev’ry word. For how can any one promote Your liveliness by anecdote?

Oh, no! I’d rather live alone Upon a desert isle, With not a voice, except my own, To cheer me all the while, Than talk to men who learn by rote Their paltry funds of anecdote!

_Fun_, 1866.

A WHITCOMB RILEY STORY

On the way to the office of his publishers one crisp autumn morning, Mr. James Whitcomb Riley, the celebrated “Hoosier” poet of America, who is almost as well known in England, met an unusually large number of acquaintances who commented conventionally upon the fine weather. This unremitting applause amused him. When greeted at the office with “Nice day, Mr. Riley,” he smiled broadly.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Yes, I’ve heard it very highly spoken of.”

MARK TWAIN AND THE KEY

“Once when I was going out to visit some friends,” Mark Twain is alleged to have said, in relating this one of the innumerable “yarns” fathered on him, “I told George, my negro servant, to lock the house and put the key under a certain stone near the steps. He agreed to do so.

“It was late at night when I returned. I went to the stone under which the key was supposed to have been hidden. It was gone. I hunted around the premises for about fifteen minutes, but still no key.

“Finally I went to George’s house--he lived outside--and rapped, vigorously upon the door. A black head, which I had no difficulty in recognizing as George’s, popped out of an upstairs window.

“‘Where did you put that key, you black rascal?’ I roared.

“‘Oh, massa,’ answered George, ‘I found a better place for it.’”

HUMOURS OF THE PRINTING-HOUSE

The printing-house is notoriously the place for fun. Every shop has its selection of funny men who are ever ready to co-operate with the “devils” in manufacturing mirth. And there are always the “fossils,” who afford many an opportunity for a hearty laugh at them, if not with them. Often have I been amused with, the idiosyncrasies of these typographical gray beards; their chief charm being their colossal assurance as to their invariably being right, and everybody else, who presumes to differ from them, wrong. I recollect one of these ancient typesetters (an old Scotsman) who used to be the butt of countless jokes in the shop where he toiled so patiently. On one occasion he set up an article from my pen, beginning, “Long before the introduction of Pears’ Soap”; and I am bothered if he didn’t turn the last two words into “Pea Soup!” But the real fun of the matter was, that on his mistake being pointed out, he blandly suggested our letting the words appear as he had set them--“it wid dae jist as weel!”

The printer does not seem to be deeply concerned about his future, indeed, he has many a gay dig at that grave subject; as, for instance--

Old Lucifer, both kind and civil. To every printer lends a devil; But, balancing accounts each winter, For every devil takes a printer.

The printer’s “devil,” by the way, is a queer fish, and there is a story about a certain metropolitan imp that fits any of the little sinners to a T. This particular youngster had just received his week’s wages, eleven shillings, when he was heard to soliloquize in these terms--“Let me see. I’ll go the Coliseum to-night, that’s a shilling; supper with bottled beer, that’s eighteenpence; ’baccy for the week, a shilling; beer ditto, two shillings; theatre one night next week, that’s one-and-six, and supper, one-and-six; and I’ll buy that swell walking stick, and that’ll just leave sixpence to take home to mother towards my week’s board.” He must have been a regular bad ’un, that.

Another favourite medium of printing-house fun is found in adapting Gilbert’s famous line and mourning that a “printer’s lot is not a happy one,” or magnifying the annoyances from authors and editors with which printers have to put up. In this connexion we find one printer relieving his troubled soul thus--

Working for forty editors and scores of authors, every one of whom is as sensitive as a sore thumb, and as lively and interesting as a hornet, no wonder that printers die young, and only pachydermatus, grizzly, mulish specimens get their share of life. The writer wishes he could offer himself as an awful example of the perils which environ a man who meddles with cold type. A thoroughly trained printer should have had a stepmother, and then a stepfather, and then have been bound out to a tanner, and then have married a scolding wife, and lived in a smoky house, and have had a family of babies who were afflicted with colic. He should have added to all this discipline a thorough knowledge of science, art, law, language, theology, history and biography. If, in addition, he has a vicious looking countenance and an amiable disposition, he may stand some chance with these authors and editors ; but the probabilities are, after all, that they will worry him to death.

Then there is a certain freedom about printers’ humour which we don’t find elsewhere, save among editors: but printers, like editors, have ever been privileged individuals, and we are told that when the recording angel observes a printer hold a bit of bent brass rule between his fingers, while he misses it with a hammer, the trustworthy scribe drops into a brown study, and pretends not to hear anything. Nor is it logical to assume that a printer is a saint because he sets up a hymn-book. You might as well regard an editor as a fool because you didn’t exactly agree with what was in his paper.

Illustrative of this there is an excellent anecdote told by the late Max O’Rell in his book, _A Frenchman in America_.

A former proprietor of the _New York Times and Post_ was wont every morning to select a text from the Bible to be printed above the leader. One morning, by some mischance, the text got lost, and Max tells us that the comps might have been heard asking in pretty loud stage whispers, “If anybody knew where that d---- text was?”

Perhaps the wit of the compositor is most amusing when it appeals to the eye. That is, when he gives rein to his fancy, and uses his types for suggesting witty ideas. Here is a very happy illustration of this kind of fun--

“T_T_h_h_e_e_ c_c_o_o_m_m_p_p_o_o_s_s_i_i_t_t_o_o_r_r_ w_w_h_h_o_o_ s_s_e_e_t_t_ t_t_h_h_i_i_s_s_ p_p_a_a_r_r_. h_h_a_a_s_s_ h_h_a_a_d_d_ e_e_x_x_a_a_c_c_t_t_l_l_y_y_ a_a_ g_g_l_l_a_a_s_s_s_s_ a_a_n_n_d_d_ a_a_ h_h_a_a_l_l_f_f_ t_t_o_o_o_o_ m_m_u_u_c_c_h_h_ a_a_n_n_d_d_ t_t_h_h_i_i_s_s_ i_i_s_s_ p_p_r_r_e_e_c_c_i_i_s_s_e_e_l_l_y_y_ w_w_h_h_a_a_t_t_ h_h_e_e_ f_f_e_e_e_e_l_l_s_s_ l_l_i_i_k_k_e_e._”

Yes, that compositor may only have had “a glass and a-half too much,” but the typo who is supposed to have set up the appended advertisement has manifestly indulged to even a greater extent--

£ DOGSH LOSHT! Reward Five Shtrayed or Shtolen, BANDY COLOURED LIVER LEGGED DOG Had on Collar Marked “Rover,” Answers to name of C.B., Esq. Whoever bringsh 5£ receive dogsh reward. No furtherdogsh will be offered.

American printers are much given to these diverting devices, and in the following instance we have a number of papers vieing with one another in extracting fun from the technical terms for the various signs and punctuations--

“If brevity is the soul of wit, how is this for a funny ¶?--‘Wheeling Journal.’ It is without a ‖.--‘New York Enterprise.’ Did you expect anybody to “ ” that?--‘Philadelphia Sunday Mirror.’ Those are the worst jokes of the .--‘Washington Critic.’ My * * *, you’re pointed as a †, aren’t you?--‘Burlington Enterprise.’ We ⏞ the opportunity to say these are ,cal???you fellows pro£.--‘Gold.’ Well, they afford a $ous sort of amusement at best and ---- our spirits greatly.--‘New York “L.” R. Journal.’”

Here is another of the same, as they say about the Psalms of David--

“A company of printers from Constantinople have joined the Turkish army. They ought to be good at a — at the enemy in the :ized region of Bulgaria. It is surprising that they should be so foolish * their lives where shot and shell may put an untimely . to their existence. Let them ⏞ the first opportunity 2 , way from that § where the murderous work of †† is un‖ed, and may the ☞ of Providence guide them to a latitude where they may live with a greater ° of safety.”

The printer can also make fun with a few brackets and other typographical oddments, as shown above.

In taking leave of this very entertaining subject one cannot do better than quote a printer’s “little joke,” which is at once mirth-provoking, and eminently suited as a “tail-piece” for this paper--

“Full many a man, who now doth cheat the printer, Will waste his voice upon the heated air, And vainly sigh for cooling breeze of winter When he is punished for his sins down there.”

☟ ☟ ☟ ☟ ☟ ☟

HARRIS-ING REFLECTIONS

_Written after a Visit to the Olympic._

O Sairey Gamp! oh, Sairey Gamp! Of honest people of your stamp, ma’am, To find a score or even more--the Cynic would not need his lamp, ma’am! For far and wide on ev’ry side there quite as many, I’m afraid, are As on each hedge, so folks allege, the plenteous blackberries displayed are. Just gaze around--what lots are found, of “honest men” (in common diction) Whose honour, sense, or wealth immense has no existence but in fiction. Oh, there be few who never knew the great promoters and projectors Who when they blow a bubble “Co.” obtain from fancy their directors. And there’s a host of men that boast how many lords as friends they gaze on, Whose arms no work compiled by Burke was ever called upon to blazon. How many too from far Peru to China quote their travels daring, And still, I ween, have never been ten miles beyond the Cross of Charing! Why scores, I know, the world’s Great Show declare they saw last year at Paris, Yet saw no more the Gallic shore than you set eyes on Mrs. Harris!

In piteous tones will Mrs. Jones of “better days” and “losses” gibber, Yet has she ne’er, as I can swear, had anything to lose--the fibber! There’s Figgs will plead for cash--his need to meet a bill of large amount is-- But that same bill, assert I will, drawn on imagination’s fount is! Just ask your friend Tom Browne to lend you twenty pounds--or make it fifty; He blames his fate, “you’re just too late--in fact he must himself be thrifty, Confound! and dash! last week all cash available in funds invested!” Those funds, I guess, would nothing less than fancy stocks turn out if tested. There’s Major Jaw who service saw the great Peninsular campaign in-- Yet ne’er was there! His martial air was built some French _château_-in-Spain in? There’s Bragg whose name all lists proclaim, which tell the world how many guineas A B and C, with D and E, subscribe when sought a lot of tin is To whitewash blacks, or scatter “tracks”--for Charity! Yet gentle Charis I fear you’ll find for men so blind no more exists than Mrs. Harris!

Oh, Sairey Gamp, oh Sairey Gamp! This world “a wale,” oh Sairey Gamp, is! And now and then the best of men (like Pecksniff) but a sorry scamp is. I’ve, on my word, a sermon heard so clever I should like to quote it--

Denouncing shams, and bams, and crams--yet he who preached it never wrote it! I feel remorse that fine discourse to fix a qualifying term on But am compelled to own I held it Mrs. H.’s funeral sermon. I’ve known also, a medico experiment where sickness floored him, And try to kill his patient till kind nature stepping in restored him! Well, thereupon our doctor shone with conscious skill and self-laudation, As if he’d not his wisdom got from Mrs. H.--in consultation! And eke in Law you’ll find the flaw Divinity and Physic suffer, Some juniors drag a heavy bag, but every paper there’s a duffer. Mere empty show--it’s wrong you know--a swindle! And yet many a barris- Ter’s earliest brief, I own with grief, has been “the case of Mrs. Harris.”

_Fun_, 1868.

HUMOURS OF ADVERTISING

America is the fatherland of Modern Advertising, and Cousin Jonathan’s inherent taste for fun and unconventionality has led him to adopt striking and often humorous methods of appeal. Thus the Washington hotel-keeper who issued a glowing announcement of the attractions of his establishment would certainly lose nothing when he humorously added to his advertisement in a Chicago paper: “Clergymen find this the best place for rest, as book agents cannot climb the hill.”

An enterprising Yankee who runs a hotel at Minnetonka, rejoicing in the somewhat ominous name of _Mosquitos Rest_, sends forth an announcement remarkable for the manner in which it mixes the sublime with the commonplace. Here is a literal extract--

Delightful scenery. Clam bakes and ox tail soup every morning for breakfast. No cyclones allowed to register. Dogs, children, and other pets not allowed on the grass. Rates range from 3 dols. per day to 21 dols. per week. Excursions to Pike’s Peak every afternoon. Newspaper publishers can all pay their board by promising to give us a write-up when they get home. All kinds of baths on draft.

Perhaps the most amusing descent from the sublime is to be found in the advertisement of the proprietor of a building site in Wisconsin, who offered his land for sale in these terms--

The town of Poggis and surrounding country is the most beautiful which nature ever made. The scenery is celestial--divine; also two waggons to sell, and a yoke of steers.

A Pennsylvania clergyman who was evidently a bit of a humorist, and was anxious to earn an honest penny outside of his own slender salary, once advertised thus--

Cupid and Hymen. The little brown cottage at Cambridge, Pa., is the place to call and have the marriage knot promptly and strongly tied. Inquire of Rev. S. S. Whitcomb.

What benedict could resist an invitation so gracefully given?

It would be difficult to surpass the grim humour of the Pine Tree State gravestone cutter who notified the public as follows--“Such as buy tombstones of us look with pride and satisfaction upon the graves of their friends.” The announcement of an Illinois undertaker, however, runs it pretty close. Here it is--“An elegant stock of neat and nobby shrouds, warranted to give satisfaction to the most particular.”

The column in American papers devoted to “Wants” frequently affords its readers some amusement, either through the eccentricity of the advertiser or on account of some printer’s error. To the former cause, we have to ascribe the appended notice from a Kansas paper--

Wanted an old man of cranky disposition, who will stand no bull-dozing, to work from 3 to 7 p.m.; good salary and light work. Address “Crank.”

Let’s hope this plain-spoken advertiser met with the desirable un-bull-dozable individual he wanted, and that the firm who inserted the following in a southern paper were likewise successful in their quest for a young man of the same kidney--

We desire an able-bodied, hard-featured, bad-tempered, not-to-be-put-off and not-to-be-backed-down young man, to collect for us; must furnish his own horse, saddle-bags, pistols, bowie knife and cowhide. We will furnish the accounts. To such a person we promise constant and laborious employment.

As to humour arising from printers’ errors, a whole volume of such amusing blunders might be collected, and the difficulty is to submit one or two of the most mirth-provoking specimens. For instance, a Boston clergyman asks for “a young man to take care of a span of horses of a religious turn of mind,” while another person desires “a nurse in a small gentleman’s family,” and a Texas man applies for a “Boss hand over 5,000 sheep that can speak Spanish fluently.” In our home papers, too, there are many such mirthful mistakes. For example, a notice in a Welsh paper would lead one to believe the advertiser had reached the height of “general utility,” and might be used for sleeping in, for packing in, for hammering about, or for storing goods in, and that he had been accustomed to that for seventeen years! Look you now--

Man seeks situation as bedstead, box, packing case, rough carpentry, or warehouse; 17 years’ character.

Apropos of American advertising, two amusing instances of unexpected effects are worth recording. It was a Cincinnati firm who a few years ago sent out a corps of artists who decorated all available dead walls with the legend--

+----------------------------+ | USE DR. BROWN’S AGUE CURE. | +----------------------------+

A few weeks later another band of paint-brush wielders struck the trail of Dr. Brown’s advertisers, and as the result the rural population was thus advised--

+----------------------------+ | TAKE SMITH’S SARSAPARILLA, | | AND YOU WON’T HAVE TO | | USE DR. BROWN’S AGUE CURE. | +----------------------------+

It was in Baltimore where the town was liberally supplied with imperative commands to “Take Ayer’ Pills!” One of these notices was inscribed on the rail of a board fence immediately underneath which some zealous colporteur had appropriated a rail for the admonition, “Prepare to meet your God!” A wag, taking advantage of the situation, connected the two inscriptions with a conspicuous “_and_,” and thus left them.

The Jap, a slavish imitator of Western customs, has adopted the methods of Western advertisement, although his knowledge of the English language leaves something to be desired. The following is an extract from an announcement of a certain teeth powder sweetly named “Naniwakusurihamigaki,” which appeared in an Anglo-Japanese periodical--“This Teeth Powder is not common thing, as be selled in the world, it is powerful to hold the health of teeth, and recover the teeth from its sick. If you only examine you should find that I never tell a lie.”

Indian native journals published in what is alleged to be English, but what is better described as “Baboo,” also afford many examples of the humours of advertising. Let us take one specimen which appeared in the original surmounted with the Royal Arms--

I the undersigned obedient monk and Tomb’s slave of Khaja Mainudin Chishti emporor of India inhabitant of Ajmere most humbly beg to every one gentleman, that if anybody might be suffering with demon, fairy, magic and fury, from any long time, or any sort of patient, who cannot be cure by any sort of medical treatment, they should attend at Mote Bazar in Memon Kader Fakir Mohomed’s house No. 383 from 6 to 12 a.m. and 3 to 5 p.m. all the abovementioned patients will be cure by pronouncing some words and blowing upon water, spiting and amulet, by the grace of the Almighty Creator.

If anybody is suffering with weakness and privacy in eyes, they will be cure by the medicine.

If anybody wishes to take examination for the above mentioned questions, the undersigned can answer for his any question very easily and several times the undersigned was made contrast with great enchanter in Calcutta at Kalighat and in Malbar, but by the grace of God Kaja saket the undersigned has been successful upon them.

Some days ago the undersigned was in Calcutta, and he cure there lots of patients by the grace of God, which was related by the Calcutta Newspapers, hoping several gentlemen might be known by reading the Calcutta newspapers, and the late Governor General Lord Ripon were very kind on the undersigned on account of above mentioned abilities, and many times I had been visited with them in Calcutta and Shamla, and surely nobody will return hopeless from the door of Khaja Mainudin Chishti emporor of India by the grace of God.

The following notice appended for the benefit of local English residents to the announcement of a masked ball at Lorenço Marques, also deserves a place among these specimens of the Humours of Advertising--

A great Mascared Ball! it will take place at Ultramarino Hotel in the 16th of instant all the mascareds must be in respectible conditions Mascareds witt religions or politic dresses are not allone The tikets can be obtaine at Messrs. Rodrigues & Cunha and alco in the same Evening at the Ultramarino Hotel Price of the tikets 4/6. Free for the mascared ladies. Let us go to the Ball.

A glance at the business life of the far East shows us that out there Western customs are steadily gaining ground, although in that queer land of China nothing appears to be new, for long, long ago they advertised their shops with sign-boards inscribed after this fashion--“Shop of Heaven-sent Luck,” “The Shop of Celestial Principles,” “The Nine Felicities Prolonged,” “Mutton Shop of Morning Twilight,” “The Ten Virtues all Complete.” Here you have poetry and business combined, while in “The Honest Pen Shop of Li,” you have a guarantee that your pens will follow the best policy, although the shopman’s name is just a wee bit suspicious. John Chinaman shows his love of contrariness surely when he advertises a charcoal shop as the “Fountain of Beauty,” a coal depôt as “Heavenly Embroidery,” or an oil and wine establishment as the “Neighbourhood of Chief Beauty,” and we can easily imagine the fiendish chuckle with which the proprietor of an opium divan advertised his shop as “The Thrice Righteous.”

THE JOURNALISTIC INSTINCT.

“I have just been having a chat with young Jones. Smart young chap, he seems, but very unlucky. He’s on the Press, I understand.”

“Yes; he tries to squeeze a loan out of everybody he meets.”

APPROVED BY THE EDITOR

Wishing to get from Chicago to Memphis, a young newspaper man purchased a “mileage” book from a “ticket scalper”--or illegal dealer in unfinished mileage tickets. The book had been the property of a reporter for the _Louisville Courier-Journal_, and the description in the cover was alarmingly different from his own. The sharp-eyed conductor immediately noticed this.

“Are you on the _Courier-Journal_?” he asked suspiciously.

“Oh, yes. I’ve been a reporter there for several years.”

The conductor asked for some identification, which naturally the passenger was unable to give.

“I have it,” said the conductor, suddenly remembering. “It just happens that Henry Watterson, Editor of the _Courier-Journal_, is on the Pullman ahead. If you’re all right he ought to be able to identify you.”

At this the young man all but collapsed. However, there was nothing to it but to take a chance. When they found Henry Watterson the conductor handed out the mileage book, and, pointing to the young man, asked if he was a reporter on the _Courier-Journal_.

“Yes, indeed,” was the quick reply. “He is one of our best men. How are you, Robert?”

Breathing a prayer of thanks, the young man returned to his seat and resumed his journey without further trouble. Next morning, in the dining wagon, he saw his friend and timidly approached him.

“Colonel Watterson,” he said fervently, “I can’t tell you how grateful I am for what you did for me yesterday. I----”

“Tut, tut. Don’t mention it,” returned his benefactor. “You did every bit as much for me. I’m not Henry Watterson. I’m just travelling on his pass.”

_Everybody’s Magazine_ (U.S.A.).

RULES FOR NEWSPAPER CORRESPONDENTS

Supposing you wish to contribute to a public charity, send your money to the Editor of a newspaper. He must acknowledge the receipt of it, and so you get your name and benevolence advertised in the best part of the paper for nothing.

2. Another good method, if you are fond of appearing before the public, is to request the Editor to state that “the Richard Jones who, in our police report of yesterday, was sentenced to Bridewell for shoplifting, is not the Mr. Richard Jones, the respected chiropædist of Sackville Street.”

3. If you are writing to a political newspaper, never mind about writing on the two sides of the paper, as, depend upon it, it will be a recommendation in your favour if the Editor sees you can write well on _both sides_.

4. You need not be particular about writing legibly, as it stands to reason, if the Editor cannot read your letter, that you will be spared the mortification of reading in the next day’s Notices to Correspondents, that “Philo-Justitiæ is an ass.”

5. It is usual in sending a statement, which impugns the character of another person, to send your name and address with it; but, as in matters of libel this is a very troublesome as well as a very expensive plan, it is better to send anybody else’s card rather than your own. By this means you avoid publicity, and have the double gratification of annoying two persons at once.

6. Inserting your death one day, and contradicting it the next, is another very cheap plan of advertising in a newspaper. Besides, you have the advantage of learning in your lifetime what your friends think of you after your death. This plan, however, will only answer once.

7. It is better, perhaps, not to send any poetry to a newspaper. We never recollect an instance of the _Times_ inserting “A Sonnet to a Sow,” or “Lines to my Mary.”

8. Be careful of quotations, especially in a foreign language. If an editor knows his own language well, it is as much as you have a right to expect of him.

9. Never send anything to a newspaper “to be continued,” unless it is a legacy or a dozen of port.

10. Never trouble yourself in calling to see the Editor of a newspaper. It is a strange circumstance, but you might call a hundred times and always find him “out.”

_Punch_, 1844.

LITERARY FLUNKEYISM

We sink in our own estimation as we sit down to write; we blush involuntarily, although we are in the deepest solitude; we look at our arm, in dread lest we should find a napkin hanging on it, in true waiterish attitude; we rush to the glass to ascertain whether our neck is encompassed by the conventional little white tie; and we have to look around us. No wonder! For just look here! Did audacity ever go so far? Was impertinence ever so consummate?

A gentleman, disengaged after six p.m., requires evening employment, in any capacity not menial. Good correspondent and accountant, draughtsman and composer. Would undertake London correspondence of a country paper, write critiques, etc. Terms moderate.--Address, W., etc.

A “gentleman” who wants employment “in any capacity not _menial_,” “would undertake London correspondence of a country paper, write critiques,” etc. Obviously the advertiser considers literature something a little above the work of a menial. We are, of course, obliged for this admission. Nevertheless, we confess the above advertisement has given us some doubts as to whether we shan’t find Jeames, with his fine leg, on Grub-street pavement one of these days. We would advise “W.” to go to a Dutchman, who advertises that he can supply “literary hacks”; the literary livery stables are situated somewhere up in Bloomsbury; and, no doubt, for a small sum he may be groomed down any time after six, and, with the help of a farthing rushlight in a dark lantern, find his way up Parnassus. We can tell him, however, that it would be advisable to avoid the Temple of FUN, as individuals similarly constituted to himself have before now been severely kicked, as a reward for their audacity, in that neighbourhood.

_Fun_, 1863.

HUMOURS OF OUR LANGUAGE

(OR, MORE “POETS AT PLAY.”)

The anomalies of English spelling and pronunciation have many a time served our humorous writers with capital material for their rhymes. The following is one of the cleverest of the kind referred to:--

As a farmer was going to plough, He met a man driving a cough, They had words which led to a rough, And the farmer was struck on his brough.

One day when the weather was rough, An old lady went out for some snough, Which she thoughtlessly placed in her mough, And it got scattered all over her cough.

While a baker was kneading his dough, A weight fell down on his tough, When he suddenly exclaimed ough! Because it had hurt him sough.

There was a hole in a hedge to get through, It was made by no one knew whough; In getting through a boy lost his shough, And was quite at a loss what to dough.

A poor old man had a bad cough, To a doctor he straight went ough, The doctor did nothing but scough, And said ’twas all fancy, his cough.

Alliteration has long been a favourite target for the arrows of wits, though most of them are forced to acknowledge its “artful aid.” It requires a very considerable command of the English language, however, before a rhymester can concoct five quatrains in which every word commences with the same letter. This is the diverting composition here referred to; it is supposed to be a serenade sung by Major Marmaduke Muttonhead to Mademoiselle Madeline Mendoza Marriott--

My Madeline! My Madeline! Mark my melodious midnight moans, Much may my melting music mean, My modulated monotones.

My mandoline’s mild minstrelsy, My mental music magazine, My mouth, my mind, my memory, Must mingling murmur “Madeline.”

Mankind’s malevolence may make Much melancholy music mine; Many my motives may mistake, My modest meritings malign.

Match-making mothers machinate, Manœuvring misses me misween; Mere money may make many mate, My magic motto’s “Madeline.”

Melt most mellifluous melody ’Midst Murcia’s misty mounts marine, Meet me by moonlight--marry me, Madonna mia--Madeline.

The following is another and more varied example of alliteration wilfully overdone--

With a splitter, splatter, splutter And a gurgling in the gutter. And a tinkle, tankle, tunkle on the shingle and the pane. With a misty, murky mizziness, Settling down to steady business, Comes the dreary, drowsy, drooling of the dripping, dropping rain.

With a sizzle, sozzle, suzzle, Buttoned upward to the muzzle, The weary waiting walker drags his rubbers from the mud: While the dizzy, dodging, dancing, Of the umber-ella prancing, Drives a man to lurid longings for some other fellow’s blood.

Oh, the breezy brooks may babble. And the gentle poet dabble In his veering vernal verses and fond memories they bring; But no earthly rhyme or reason Makes believe in such a season That this wishy-washy weather is a cloudy ghost of spring.

These specimens may not be the best that can be quoted; I do not suppose they are, and should indeed be audacious were I to submit them as such. Addison’s assertion as to false wit will, no doubt, stand as firm as ever in the minds of most people after reading these notes on “The Poets at Play.” All that has been here attempted, and thus much perhaps the indulgent reader will grant, has been to show that there may be found in what the famous essayist would have us condemn as unworthy many characteristics of wit, humour, and ingenuity; and not only these, but examples of the patience and painstaking which are near allied to “genius.”

MORE HUMOURS OF ADVERTISING

Perhaps the Americans are ahead of us in advertising; but there is no little enterprise and good humour displayed in that business on this side the Atlantic. In the street of a northern town one day, the writer was presented with a handbill which will bear comparison with many such transatlantic compositions. It was issued by a tea merchant, whom we will refer to as “Smith.” In great black letters was the heading, “Ananias Redivivus,” then came the pointed queries, “Had Ananias any descendants? If so, what became of them? Did they emigrate to Scotland?” From the contents of the bill I take the following, which, I should state, was “displayed” in a most effective manner--

The judge says the resetter is as bad as the thief.

Smith says the foolish buyer is as bad as the lying advertiser.

The judge says, no resetters, fewer thieves.

Smith says, no foolish buyers, no lying advertisers.

Why? Because, if there were no fools, it wouldn’t pay.

Thus the resetter is only responsible for some of the thieves; but the stupid, foolish buyer is entirely responsible for all the lying advertisers; and by dealing with them becomes a participator with them in their wickedness, which brought such disastrous consequences upon Ananias.

But the way to know them is this--Use all the common-sense you have been blessed with, and when you read such an advertisement as--“Best tea the world produces, 1_s._ 7_d._ per lb.,” if you don’t say the advertiser is a common, bare-faced perverter of the truth, a lineal descendant of Ananias, one with whom poor old Ananias would not have had the ghost of a chance for boldness and audacity, then you have been blessed with very little.

But did it pay Ananias? Will it pay his descendants?

Here is a text for our popular preachers. I have actually heard well-dressed, intelligent-looking people praise such men as clever; as if it were clever to tell a lie, a game at which the biggest rogue can beat the best gentleman.

Lately the Chinese objected to the government planting a certain kind of tree in their streets. When asked the reason, they said it would spoil their business, as it was one of their holy trees, and they could not tell a lie under its shade.

A few trees of this sort wanted in the streets of Glasgow.

Now, although not under the shade of a holy tree, I speak the truth when I most emphatically declare that my tea at 1_s._ 6_d._ per lb. is better than that sold as the “best tea the world produces, 1_s._ 7_d._ per lb.”

We have in the foregoing an instance of a disciple of the good George Washington airing his Biblical knowledge, and in the same way we find a Birmingham bootmaker parading his acquaintance with the divine Shakespeare thus wise--

“I pray you, sir, walk in.”--_Merry Wives of Windsor, ii. 5._

“And I will boot thee.”--_Ant. and Cleo., i. 1._

“We lay our service freely at your feet.”--_Hamlet, ii. 2._

Why does not some cobbler making use of the bard’s writings thus--“All that I live by is with the awl. I meddle with no tradesman’s matters nor women’s matters but with awl. I am, indeed, sir, surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger I recover them.” [Trade journals please copy.]

These shoemakers would appear to be quite a literary lot, for in a certain east coast town of Scotland an enterprising member of the craft enlisted the tuneful muses to extol his trade--or, mayhap, it was some relative of the poet “Slum” who rolled his eye in a fine frenzy, and produced these exquisite lines--

Gae bring my auld topcoat, guidwife, Gae bring it unco fast, For I maun gang to Marshall’s shop Afore the nicht be past; My feet are damp, my boots are dune, An’ sae I canna rest Till I’m awa’ to Marshall’s shop, For Marshall’s boots are best.

The English papers, like their American contemporaries, are rich in amusing advertisements of the “wants” class. Here is one that appeared in a newspaper published in a university town, which probably accounted for the “scholarly” tone of the notice--

MISSING.--A black spaniel dog named “Blen,” whose owner’s address is---- It is asserted by some that Honesty is the Best Policy, and that Virtue is its own Reward. If the present possessor of the dog supports this view, his course is clear. In any case, no greater reward will be offered.

The gentleman who inserted the following in a London daily, and desired replies to be sent to “Disgusted,” had apparently experienced the joys of life in lodgings--

REQUIRED, in the West End, for a permanency, sitting and two large bedrooms, nicely furnished. Do not reply if related to the nobility, unaccustomed to receive, or animated by any other reason than a desire to secure the amount paid for apartments, etc. Marketing done personally. Careless or unskilled preparation, waste, or mysterious disappearance of the things provided not tolerated. So-called musical evenings, cheerful family, tennis lawns, imitation gardens, select society, etc., regarded with indifference. Hypocrisy and snobbishness disliked. Preferred and insisted upon instead--good cooking, prompt attendance, scrupulous neatness, and a plentiful supply of clean house linen. A written agreement to be made and mutually complied with. State inclusive terms and full particulars. N.B.--Inclusive terms means “no extras.”

A London weekly once gave insertion to the appended notice, evidently the work of a wag, and intended as a skit upon a rather romantic episode which transpired about the time, when a lady played kidnapper, and a member of the sterner sex figured as the kidnapped--

MATRIMONY.--Wanted, a rich American or English lady to kidnap advertiser, who is of fine physique and well developed, in fact, a Samson, who would not mind a trip with comfortable quarters on board a yacht during the honeymoon, especially if the lady is amiable. Genuine.

This recalls an advertisement from an otherwise-minded young man. It appeared in an American paper--

A YOUNG gentleman on the point of getting married is desirous of meeting a man of experience who will dissuade him from such a step.

Probably some one referred this cautious youth to _Punch_, of a certain date, where the proper advice was given.

HE NEVER CALLED AGAIN.

_Ballad for Music._

I met him in the festive scene, Where hearts and eyes were bright; I met him--ah, we ne’er had been Acquainted till that night.

I met him once again: ’twas where The warbling queens of song With liquid music filled the air, And hushed the listening throng.

Next day he came to make a call I’d lodgings then at Brown’s-- He stayed an hour, that was not all, He borrowed two half-crowns.

This world is but a wilderness, Of grief and tears and pain-- I travel onward--but you’ll guess, He never called again.

_Fun_, 1866.

A DANGEROUS WRITER

Young Jonathan’s a pet of mine For poetry and prose; I think his books are jolly fine (As literature goes). One Yankee, though, I _cannot_ read; He makes me shudder so. He’s very dangerous indeed, Is Edgar Allen Poe.

I dearly love the simple style Of Irving at his best, And think that Hawthorne is a mile In height above the rest. I keep upon my shelves the works Of Wendell Holmes; but, oh! What fearful fascination lurks In Edgar Allen Poe.

We learn from Henry Wadsworth L. That life is not a dream, In lines that read extremely well, But “are not what they seem.” I’ve studied Henry Wadsworth hard, From lots of years ago, And found in _him_ a safer bard Than Edgar Allen Poe.

He draws you like a rattlesnake, Does Mr. E. A. P., His tales have kept me wide awake Till two o’clock and three. Those stories have a deeper charm Than any ones I know-- But, bless you! there’s a heap of harm In Edgar Allen Poe.

His narrative about a cat Will make your blood run cold, So fearful a romance as that Has never yet been told. The Pit and Pendulum will send A thrill from top to toe. Pure horror seems the aim and end Of Edgar Allen Poe.

I’ve dreamt of Ravens and of Bells-- Of undiscovered crimes-- Of haunted glens and ghostly dells, At least a dozen times. And often on a winter night, My courage ran so low I dare not sleep without a light-- Through Edgar Allen Poe.

_Fun_, 1867.

THE PHILOSOPHER’S REVENGE

A STORY WITHOUT WORDS

IN SIXTEEN CHAPTERS.

(_The right of translation is reserved._)

* * * * *

According to a most unlikely story, the late Phil May was once on his uppers in a small town in Australia. To stave off starvation he sought and found employment as a waiter in a fourth-class eating house. One day a man who had known the artist in London dropped in and took a seat at one of the tables. When May went to take his order mutual recognition followed.

“Phil May!” the visitor exclaimed. “And compelled to work in a hole like this!”

“Yes,” retorted the artist indignantly. “I’ve sunk pretty low, but I haven’t yet got so far down that I have to eat here.”

* * * * *

James McNeill Whistler and a friend, strolling through a London suburb, met a small boy. Whistler asked him his age.

“Seven,” the boy replied.

“Oh, you must be more than seven,” said Whistler doubtingly.

“Seven,” insisted the boy, rather pleased at being taken for older.

Turning to his friend, Whistler said, “Do you think it possible that he really could have got as dirty as that in only seven years?”

“I ordered you to paint me some cows in a stable. I see the stable, but where are the cows?”

“They are in the stable.”

“So is your pay for this picture. You had better bring both out.”

* * * * *

“What colour of hair do you prefer, Mr. Baldwon, black or blonde?”

“I would not care what colour it was, if I only had some!”

* * * * *

“Your last book, madame, had a colossal success.”

“I should say so! Every one of my three divorced husbands wanted to re-marry me!”

* * * * *

A great man was complaining of all the charities to which he was forced to contribute.

“I give without counting,” he groaned.

“Yes, but not without recounting,” replied a friend.

* * * * *

PROFESSOR. I came in accordance with an invitation I received to examine your collection of curiosities.

PARVENU (_just returned from long voyage_). Certainly, professor, walk right in. Allow me to first introduce to you my wife and daughters.

* * * * *

FIRST AUTHOR. “Well, what do you think of the book of our colleague Tintinger?”

SECOND AUTHOR. “Oh, what a shameless bidder for notoriety!”

“What! How so?”

“Did you not read the dedication, ’To my mother-in-law, with sincere esteem’?”

* * * * *

FIRST ARTIST. Well, are you satisfied with the appreciation that marine view of yours has received?

SECOND ARTIST. Delighted. Two women just stopped in front of it and one said to the other, “It just makes me seasick to look at it.”

* * * * *

There has been much discussion as to the assistance that photography might render judicial authorities in enabling the arrest of criminals.

Yet this is what recently occurred in France. Six photographs in different poses of the same criminal who had escaped from prison were sent out to all the communes of France. From the mayor of one of these districts the following letter was received:

“Five of the criminals whose photographs you sent have already been arrested; we are on the track of the sixth.”

PAINTERS AND GAZERS

A SKETCH AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY

I had hopes--I know that they have proved to be unfounded, but I cannot admit that they were unreasonable!--I _had_ hopes that I should have been able to avail myself of the privilege of free admission conceded to exhibitors. Unfortunately, I do not exhibit!

I sent three pictures! 1 (a pre-Raphaelite bit of nature), “Docks and Marsh Mallows”; 2 (an attempt to depict a really unhackneyed historical situation), “Charles the Second in the Oak”; 3 (a genre painting), “The New Crinoline.”

If it were becoming (which it is not) I could say a good deal about these works; but I forbear to do so. _They were all three rejected by the Hanging Committee._

I have accordingly paid my shilling, and I mean to take it out in criticism. The Academicians have exercised _their_ rights; I shall use mine. There will be plenty of hacks to fawn upon the imbecile canvas-spoilers, the miserable, crass, cringing, dull, feeble, superannuated, impotent, and abject Forty. Of those hacks I decline to be one. Honest truth (uninfluenced by passion) is what the wretched dotards shall hear from _me_.

I saw men prowling about (there was Mr. Thackeray, for instance, as large as life, and a host of other “successful” men--_I_ hate success!) who had evidently made up their minds to be pleased with this, the most disreputable Exhibition that ever degraded British Art. Let them. Thoughts is free, as Mrs. Brown said at the play; _and so are mine_. It is all very well to get a set of literary time-servers to hob and nob with Academicians at the annual orgie which disgraces Trafalgar-square, and on which hundreds of pounds are spent that ought to be devoted to the development of talent such as that of--well, of some I _could_ name; but _I_ was never invited to the so-called banquet. Banquet, indeed! I would rather maintain my honest independence, though I had nothing to eat but a polony--and this is sometimes the case! Look at young Mr. Marcus Stone. I’ll be bound to say _he_ never eats polonies--and yet all London is talking of his “Napoleon,” whilst my “New Crinoline” has not yet met even with a dealer!

Look at Mr. Ruskin. What did they do to _him_? Why, they asked him to dinner! What was the result?

His Critical Notes have never appeared since!! Not that it matters much.

Exhibition, indeed! Why, you can’t see anything--not that there is much to see--for the crowd of gaping women that block up the hideous and uncomfortable rooms with their preposterous crinoline--and yet the Academicians rejected _mine_! Then, the “swells”--a set of lounging insipid imbeciles, drawling out their vapid Dundrearyisms--and the old fogies, wagging their stupid old heads--I should like to knock a few of them together!--and the smug, smiling fellows whose pictures have been accepted--and the “Art-Critics,” who pretend to see power in a man like Millais, and poetry in a man like Hook, and humour in a man like Marks, but who are far too high and mighty, I promise you, to come up four pair of stairs and see my “Marsh Mallows,”--and if they did, they couldn’t appreciate them! There, I’m tired of the whole concern--pictures and painters and visitors and all--and Mrs. Edwards is bothering me for the rent--and, unless you print this, to show up the impostors, and send the money by return, I shall have to paint sign-boards. David Cox painted one--and I dare say did it badly--for I never thought much of _him_! Or any other man!

_Fun_, 1863.

* * * * *

POET. What do you think of this little poem of mine, “She Would Not Smile.”

EDITOR. I think if you had read the poem to her she would have smiled.

* * * * *

PROFESSOR (_turning angrily to class_). This is intolerable! Every time I speak an imbecile talks.

* * * * *

BOARDER (_to landlady_). Did you hear me come home last night?

LANDLADY. Did I? I heard you coming home for several hours!

* * * * *

EISENSTEIN. Hello, old man, what makes you look so worried?

ROSENSTEIN. The doctor ordered me to take a bath!

_Eisenstein._ Cheer up, old man! You can try this new dry cleaning process.

* * * * *

“See what a beautiful set of teeth the baroness has!”

MISS N. V. “Yes, it looks as if she had swallowed a piano, all but the keyboard.”

* * * * *

CHARMING YOUNG WOMAN (_to artist_). But a hundred pounds seems to me too much for my portrait. I find it so easy to paint myself!

* * * * *

“You say your manager threw an inkstand at you?”

“Yes, he did, but I must say for him that he threw the blotting pad after it.”

* * * * *

ETHEL. Good-morning, Mr. Jones. You don’t seem to mind the heat!

JONES (_surlily_). I should say not. All my friends have given me the cold shoulder.

* * * * *

“How attractive that lady over there is! What a fine profile! What thoughtful, dreamy eyes! If I could only find out in what branch of knowledge she is especially interested! Listen! She is asking the librarian something. I wonder what it is.”

LIBRARIAN. “No, madame, I do not know whether he was here yesterday.”

“Madame, I have picked out a charming husband for you. Only I warn you he is a thorough sportsman. Fond of motoring, mountain-climbing, bicycling, and ballooning.”

APPLICANT (_thoughtfully_). “Can’t you give me something that lasts longer?”

* * * * *

“I can’t understand how a man can commit suicide for love.”

“It happens frequently.”

“Well, perhaps so, but if I did it, I should regret it all my life.”

* * * * *

“Hello, Jimson, whither so fast?”

“Don’t stop me. I’m going to my employer’s funeral, and there is nothing he hates so much as to have any one come in late.”

OUR HISTORICAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

1.--HENRY THE EIGHTH 2.--DR. JOHNSON 3.--HENRY THE THIRD OF FRANCE 4.--NAPOLEON I 5.--LOUIS THE ELEVENTH 6.--OLIVER CROMWELL 7.--FREDERICK THE GREAT

A DREAM OF UNFAIR WOMEN

BY CLEMENT W. SCOTT.

I read, as daylight broadened into morn, _A Tale of Unfair Women_, in the pause, “My youth!” one said, “whenever you have sworn, These women were the cause!”

At first methought a lady at a ball Sat with black-bearded warriors by the stair, She was _décolletée_ and divinely tall, With long, gold-dusted hair.

A meek young gentleman approached her seat, His gloves were split, his waistcoat buttons false; She gazed an instant at his clumsy feet, Then sneered, “I do not valse!”

I saw a pic-nic by the river side, On scarlet rugs one sat, apart from man, Queenlike she was, dark-haired and dreamy-eyed, Hat-bound with astracan.

A melancholy captain in the line Drew near at last to pour forth all his heart; She turned, “A thousand pardons, friend of mine, Where is my cherry-tart?”

A maid, blue-stockinged, broke the silence drear, And flashing forth a winning smile, said she, “’Tis long since I have seen a man. Come here, Play croquet now with me.”

She “spooned,” and cheated, and had ankles thick, I let her win, the game was such a bore, Her bright ball quivered at the coloured stick-- Touched,--and we played no more.

I turning saw a couple newly wed; She--lately fond of flirting, and a belle-- Now contradicted every word he said, And bullied him as well.

She said, “Oh! bother business; really, dear, You’ve no more feeling for me than a stone; I wish my kind mamma lived somewhere near-- I won’t be left alone!”

I was cut off from hope in such a place! An evening party whence I dared not roam, My sister held her hand before her face, I longed to be at home.

I strove to stir, but I was victimized To talk to dowagers; between the sets Two voiceless females, old and undersized, Chirp’d Mendelssohn’s duets.

But soon my eyes were turned towards a stage-- This was an awful sight, it haunts me yet-- I saw a lady, of uncertain age, Burlesquing Juliet.

I saw a spectacled, but wild mamma, Coaxing her daughter with a fair-haired lad; Then, hearing he made nothing, frowned; and, ah! Called the young man “a cad.”

I heard old maids take characters away; I saw young ladies dress like men and smoke; An authoress next read a five-act play, ’Twas wicked, and I woke.

_Fun_, 1865.

IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS

_P. Veronese._ And you saw this English Painter, who has last arrived among us, Sir Joshua?

_Sir J. Reynolds._ I did--and, faith, with the more interest that such arrivals become, every day, more rare. But I would rather keep back his tidings from our friends here.

_All._ Nay--speak--speak!

_Rubens._ You know, my friend, we have no jealousies here--nor schools.

_Rafael._ Our noble Michael has forgiven my youthful presumption.

_M. Angelo._ Not a word of that--I was to blame. _Basta!_ You acted nobly, gracefully, kindly as ever.

_Titian._ The outline of Rome embraces the colour of Venice; and Titian here, after life, recognizes the might of Michael Angelo, and the saintliness of Rafael.

_Rubens._ Strange how blind we were on earth!

_A. Durer._ But the news from England?

_M. Angelo._ I love your commercial races and their merchant princes. Florence should have been my home. Has England such patrons of art as Soderini--

_Rafael._ Or as my dear Agostino Chigi? He was a banker, but had the soul of a king. How I loved him! Are there such bankers in England?

_A. Durer._ Or as my worthy burghers of Nüremberg--the friends of Luther and Melancthon--are such the shopkeepers of England?

_P. Veronese._ Or such traders as my noble Levantine merchants of the Rialto?

_Reynolds._ Hush! friends, one at a time, or I drop my ear-trumpet, as I used to do, when Boswell would put troublesome questions. I fear England hardly boasts such men as you have mentioned. But there is a large subscription to the Art-Union, and bad pictures are greedily bought at small prices; good ones at large prices are few in number, and of that few still fewer are sold.

_Rubens._ I grieve to hear it. But what of your English sovereign? His Majesty, Charles the First (I was ambassador to his Court, you may remember, from my royal friend, Philip of Spain) would stand by my easel for hours, watching me at work, and discoursing to me of art. Doubtless, your sovereign shows like grace to our brethren of this later time?

_A. Durer._ Nay, you are modest, my Rubens. For the _Liebe Deutsche Schule_, I must speak for you. Not Charles alone--but the Gonzaga of Mantua, Duke Albert, Philip the Spaniard, and the queenly Medici, gloried in calling you their friend and counsellor.

_M. Angelo._ They did not honour Art--Art honoured them. How often have I told that hard truth to our Holy Father, fiery old Julius! He cuffed his Chamberlain once, for denying it. But for my own part, I never much affected your kings and great folks.

_Rafael._ Thy noble nature disdained such shelter as we weaker and more luxurious spirits were fain to take under their escutcheons. And our Leonardo here--Francis, seemed never so great a king as when he picked up thy pencil, oh, my friend, lord not only of thine art, but of all knowledge!

_Leonardo da Vinci._ Is Art so honoured by the great of England?

_Sir J. Reynolds._ Hum! Oh, His Majesty George the III was pleased to give a charter to the Royal Academy. I have been presented--but, certainly, I don’t remember to have seen him in my painting room at Leicester Square, or to have been asked to take a seat in the Privy Council.

_Rafael._ But your reigning monarch is a Queen. Woman has ever loved the Beautiful. Surely she much affects you painters.

_Sir J. Reynolds._ Hum--ha--I am extremely deaf.

_P. Veronese_ (_shouting into his trumpet_). Does the Queen give due honour to our brethren?

_Sir J. Reynolds._ I am assured she has had painted already ten portraits of her gracious self, thirty of her Royal consort, twenty of the Royal infants, and fifty of the Royal pets, from paroquet to Brazilian monkey.

_M. Angelo._ These are your court painters, who so disgrace their calling. But your _Artists_? How goes it at the palace with them?

_Rubens._ Seated at the Royal board, doubtless--in places of honour.

_L. da Vinci._ Where else should sit the architects, engineers, philosophers, poets of the nation--in whom all knowledge is orbed around the Beautiful, and grows to Art?

_Sir J. Reynolds._ I am not informed that they _do_ sit _exactly_ at the Royal board, but the equerries’ table is excellent--and no doubt----

_M. Angelo._ _Basta!_ Do not mince words, man--out with it. The painters’ table with the lackeys! Excellent England!

_Titian_ (_aside_). These islanders! But our pictures which adorn your English galleries, my Bacchus and Ariadne--I painted it for Gonzaga.

_M. Angelo._ Well remembered, Vicellio. There’s Sebastiano’s picture, too, in your gallery; I painted the Lazarus, my Rafael, to shame thee. Blister my hand for it! How of it?

_Rafael._ It is a noble work, and I was honoured by such a rivalry.

_Rubens._ And my Peace and War? I painted it for your Charles, before I opened my negotiation for peace with Spain. Surely it is well cared-for, as a historic record, if not as a picture?

_Sir J. Reynolds._ Really my trumpet is out of order--I must go.

_P. Veronese_ (_pulling him back_). Nay, nay, you must tell us of our pictures. Do they stand your fogs and damps? Are they still brightly mellow, defying time and circumstance as such art should do?

_Sir J. Reynolds._ Why, the fact is, my friends--I am sorry to say--but our climate is so very damp, and London so smoky--that they have been cleaned.

_All._ Cleaned!

_Titian._ My Bacchus and Ariadne! Oh my tints! Oh my glazings! A picture of mine cleaned!

_Rubens._ My Peace and War! Cleaned! say flayed rather. I know your cleaners. Oh wasted labour; reputation obscured; thoughtful work rudely scrubbed away!

_All._ Shame and horror!

_M. Angelo._ So much for your _oil-painting_. Nay--excuse me, my Rafael--I sympathize with you; but why not work in fresco? Cheer up, my Titian.

_Titian._ Alas! my favourite work--my Bacchus! Cleaned! Oh Ghost of Gonzaga! Barbarians!

_Leonardo da Vinci._ Nay, weep not, my beloved friends and brothers. Is it not all of a piece? Art-Unions, royal lap-dogs, condescensions which are insults, and your great pictures ruined and destroyed. Why should you wish to exist in a country where your works have been impotent to implant the seeds of Art, or aid in their growth and nurture.

_Titian._ _Oimè_ for Venice.

_Rafael._ Oh Roma, Roma!

_A. Durer._ Nay--Nüremberg, also, is a town of burghers, and it is not so with them.

_Sir J. Reynolds_ (_aside_). I cannot console them. Their indignation is too well grounded. I, too, am a painter, but I alone am ashamed of my country!

_Punch_, 1847.

PYRAMUS AND THISBE

A TRAGIC BALLAD

I sing not now in joyous strain, To suit these mirthful pages; Mine is a tale of love and pain, Black blood and by-gone ages.

Some people’s wit is small indeed-- But smaller still must his be, Who’s never had the luck to read Of Pyramus and Thisbe.

I do not write for such a dunce, My task would be in vain; Let those who’ve blubbered at it once, Now read, and weep again.

Of all the beauties of the East, Fair Thisbe was the star, And Nature gave her--last not least-- A very cross mamma.

Next door there lived a “nice young man,” One Pyramus by name; And laughing Cupid soon began To kindle up the flame.

Then came soft words and softer sighs, And “hearts for ever true,” And radiant eyes, like summer skies, And little _billets-doux_.

Next Thisbe ’d ask to go and walk, Upon some sly pretence, And then they’d meet alone, and talk Across the garden-fence.

At last her mother caught her out-- And scarlet grew her forehead. “My stars! miss, what are you about? Good gracious me, how horrid!”

She locked her up--our hero, too, Was lectured by his father: “Do that again, sir! just you do! And won’t I whop you--rather!”

He begged and prayed: the governor Still gave that answer gruff-- “Lord; what’s the good of lovin’ her? A boy like you, sir! stuff!

“Come, get along! what’s all this fuss? Let’s have no more, sir, pray!” With broken heart poor Pyramus Turn’d in despair away.

He moped all day, and talked to none, Through dim and lone woods wending; Men cried, “If this be lover’s fun, Our hearts are worth defending!”

When day was done, the night again Brought visions of his fairy: Alas! how vain the tender pain, “_In statu pupillari_.”

He cried, “Oh this is hard, indeed-- I mayn’t caress my love, nor With blameless word win blameless meed-- O cruel, cruel guv’nor!”

I said, you know, some time ago, Their houses stood contiguous; Not _dos-à-dos_, but in a row-- I hate to be ambiguous.

Well, little Love, who’s up to snuff, In pitying mood, one day, Proposed a plan; and sure enough They tried, and found it pay.

He whispered in the ear of each, “=Seek out some little hole in Your wall, through which your lover’s speech May echo most consoling=.”

They searched above, they searched below, To find affection’s keyhole; Till--just when all appear’d “no go,” They found a little wee hole.

A rotten brick had come in two-- They saw the cranny--nay, more. They saw their love by peeping through, Ah! “_Quid non sentit amor?_”

They poked the useless brick away By digging out the mortar; And there they passed the livelong day In whispers and “soft sawder.”

Then, Thisbe ’d cry, “Oh dear, oh dear, My eyes are full of dust, love; You must come round and kiss me here, Indeed, indeed, you must, love.”

And then, poor Pyramus would say, “God bless me, how can this be? I’ve kissed a dirty lump of clay, And not my pretty Thisbe!

“Bad wall, bad wall! thy chink is small, Thy big stones almost hide her: Why leave the little hole at all Unless a little wider?

“O will you meet me quite alone To-morrow night, my dear, Beyond brass-gated Babylon Where walls can’t interfere.

“Let’s meet by nine, at Ninus’ tomb, Under the mulberry-tree, The moon that lights the sunless gloom Shall light my love to me.”

’Tis night--the moon has flung her beam Far down the glowing wave, Where rolls Euphrates’ silent stream Fast by the monarch’s grave:--

The night-wind bids the forest groan And leafy branches reel;-- But, Lord! Who’s this--and all alone-- In such a _déshabille_.

’Tis Thisbe! hear it, wise mammas, The lesson’s told concisely,-- Don’t bother Love by bolts and bars, Or you’ll be diddled nicely!

For though her mother--cross old cat-- Had safely locked her in, _She_ knew a trick worth two of that, And didn’t care a pin.

She soon escaped--no matter how-- And ere the bell tolled nine, Sat trembling where the forest bough Danced in the pale moonshine.

She sat and watched the waters roll, And more impatient grew:-- At last she heard a horrid growl,-- “Oh, dear, what shall I do?”

“Speak, Pyramus! Where are you! Oh, I hear that growl again! How can you leave your Thisbe so? You must--you must be slain!”

She’d hardly done, when trotting by, A lion fresh from slaughter, With black blood drenched, and savage eye, Came from the woods to water.

Poor Thisbe shuddered at the sight, Not relishing his “ivory”; “Besides,--especially to-night-- It’s very hard to die--very!

“I’ll run and hide behind an oak, My stars! just hear him swallow; I’d better first throw off my cloak, I wonder if he’ll follow!”

The lion on a hawthorn spray Descried the mantle dangling, She’d washed it out that very day, He stopped--and did the mangling.

But ah! the brute was hardly gone When Pyramus drew near-- “My Thisbe! Where’s my love--my own-- Good gracious me! what’s here?

“Oh, Thisbe, dearest, are you dead; Can this orn robe say true? All pawed and clawed and bloody red,-- My love, I’ll follow you!”

Then out he drew his shining blade, “Grim Death--a friend art thou-- My folly’s slain earth’s fairest maid! I’ll not survive--so now!”

With that, he gave a deadly dig, Another, and one more, Then kicked and hollo’d like a pig-- And his short life was o’er.

Poor Thisbe! fancy how she cried To find her lover struck;-- “Great Gods! I’ll slumber by his side, The darling, darling duck!”

She snatched the weapon from the wound, And bared her snowy breast; Once gazed in maddening grief around, And then--we know the rest!

_Punch_, 1844.

* * * * *

A student, showing the Museum at Oxford to a party, produced, among many other curiosities, a rusty sword. “This,” said he, “is the sword with which Balaam was going to kill his ass.” One of the company observed that he thought Balaam had no sword, but only wished for one. “You are right,” replied the student, “and this is the very sword he wished for.”

PHOTOGRAPHIC FAILURES

One of the advantages or disadvantages, as the case may be, of many photographic portraits, is, that they fade away by degrees, and thus keep pace with those fleeting impressions or feelings under which it is sometimes usual for one to ask another for his or her miniature. It may be a strong recommendation of cheap photography, that its pictures will last as long as the ordinary run of small affections, and, indeed, a superior specimen of the art may be warranted to retain its outline throughout a flirtation of an entire month’s durability. We had our own portrait taken by the cheap process a short time ago, when we received the above copy of the state of the portrait through a period of an entire fortnight.

The three specimens shown above represent our portrait when recently done; the same after it had been in existence a week, and the same after the expiration of an entire fortnight. The following pathetic ballad was appended to the specimens which we have given above:--

Behold thy portrait!--day by day, I’ve seen its features die; First the moustachios go away, Then off the whiskers fly.

That nose I loved to gaze upon, That bold and manly brow, Are vanish’d, fled, completely gone-- Alas! where are they now?

Thy hair, which once was black and bright, Much worse than grey has grown; Indeed, I scarce can say ’tis white, For ’t has completely flown.

Those speaking eyes, which made me trust In all you used to vow, Are like two little specks of dust-- Alas! where are they now?

But, ah!--thy portrait of thy love Is but a type, no doubt, And serves its fickleness to prove, For soon ’tis all wiped out.

Thy hair, thy whiskers, and thine eyes, Moustachios, manly brow, Have vanished as affection flies-- Alas!--where is it now?

_Punch_, 1847.

THE PHOTOGRAPHS

To-day I was let sit up, tucked up in a quilt in a arm-chare. I soon got tired o’ that, so I ast Betty to get me a glass o’ ice-water to squench my thirst, an’ when she was gone I cut an’ run, an’ went into Susan’s room to look at all them fotografs of nice young men she’s got there in a drawer.

The girls was all down in the parlour, ’cos Miss Watson had come to call. Betty she came a huntin’ me, but I hid in the closet behind a old hoop-skirt. I come out when she went away, and had a real good time. Some o’ them fotografs was written on the back, like this: “Conseated fop!” “Oh, ain’t he sweet?” “He ast me, but I wouldn’t have him.” “A perfect darling!” “What a mouth!” “Portrait of a donkey!”

I kep about two dozen o’ them I knew, to have some fun when I got well. I shut the drawer so Sue wouldn’t notice they was took. I felt as if I could not bare to go back to that nasty room, I was so tired of it, an’ I thought I’d pass my time a playing I was a young lady. I found a lot o’ little curls in the buro, wich I stuck on all around my forehead with a bottle of mewsiledge, and then I seen some red stuff on a sawcer, wich I rubbed onto my cheaks. When I was all fixed up I slid down the bannisters plump against Miss Watson, wot was sayin’ good-bye to my sisters. Such a hollerin’ as they made!

Miss Watson she turned me to the light, an’ sez she, as sweet as pie:

“Where did you get them pretty red cheeks, Geordie?”

Susan she made a sign, but I didn’t know it.

“I found some red stuff in Sue’s drawer,” sez I, and she smiled kind o’ hateful, and said:

“Oh!”

My sister says she is an awful gossip, which will tell all over town that they paint, wich they don’t, ’cause that sawcer was gust to make roses on card-bord, wich is all right.

Sue was so mad she boxed my ears.

“Aha, missy!” sez I to myself, “you don’t guess about them fotografs wot I took out o’ your drawer!”

Some folks think little boys’ ears are made on purpose to be boxed--my sisters do. If they knew what dark and desperate thoughts come into little boys’ minds, they’d be more careful--it riles ’em up like pokin’ sticks into a mud puddel.

I laid low--but beware to-morrow!

They let me come down to breakfast this mornin’.

I’ve got those pictures all in my pockets, you bet your life.

“Wot makes your pockets stick out so?” ast Lily, when I was a waiting a chance to slip out unbeknone.

“Oh, things,” sez I, an’ she laughed.

“I thought mebbe you’d got your books and cloathes packed up in ’em,” sez she, “to run away an’ be a Injun warryor.”

I didn’t let on anything, but ansered her:

“I’ll just go out in the backyard an’ play a spell.”

Well, I got to town, an’ had a lot of fun. I called on’ all the aboriginals of them fotografs.

“Hello, Georgie! Well agen?” said the first feller I stopped to see.

Oh, my! when I get big enuff I’ll hope my mustaches won’t be waxed like his’n! He’s in a store, an’ I got him to give me a nice cravat, an’ he ast me “Was my sisters well?” so I fished out his fotograf, and gave it to him.

It was the one that had “Conseated Fop!” writ on the back. The girls had drawed his mustaches out twict as long with a pencil, an’ made him smile all acrost his face. He got as red as fire, an’ then he skowled at me:

“Who did that, you little rascal!”

“I should say the spirits did it,” I said, as onest as a owl, an’ I went away quick cause he looked mad.

The nex plaice I come to was a grocery store, where a nuther young man lived. He had red hair an’ freckles, but he seemed to think hisself a beauty. I said:

“Hello, Peters!”

He said:

“The same yourself, Master George. Do you like raisins? Help yourself.”

Boys wot has three pretty sisters allers does get treted well, I notiss. I took a big hanful of raisins an’ sot on the counter eating ’em, till all at oncest, as if I jest thought of it, I took out his fotograf an’ squinted at it, an sez:

“I do declare it looks like you.”

“Let me see it,” sez he.

I wouldn’t for a long time, then I gave it to him. The girls had made freckles all over it. This was the one they wrote on its back, “He asked me, but I wouldn’t have him.” They’d painted his hair as red as a rooster’s comb. He got quite pale when he seen it clost.

“It’s a burning shame,” sez I, “for them young ladies to make fun of their bows.”

“Clear out,” sez Peters.

I grabbed a nuther bunch o’ raisins an’ quietly disappeared. I tell you he was rathy!

Mister Courtenay he was a lawyer, he’s got a offis on the square by the cort-house. I knew him very well, ’cause he comes to our house offen. He’s a awful queer-lookin’ chap, an’ so stuck up you’d think he was tryin’ to see if the moon was made o’ green cheese, like folks sez it is, the way he keeps it in the air. He’s got a depe, depe voice way down in his boots. My harte beat wen I got in there, I was that fritened; but I was bound to see the fun out, so I ast him:

“Is the What is It on exabishun to-day?”

“Wot do you mean?” sez he, a lookin’ down on me.

“Sue said if I would come to Mister Courtenay’s offis I would see wot this is the picture of,” sez I, givin’ him his own fotograf inskribed, “The Wonderful What is It.”

It’s awful funny to see their faces wen they look at their own cards.

In about a minit he up with his foot, wich I dodged just in time. I herd him muttering suthin’ ’bout “suing for scandal.” I think myself I oughter arrest her for ’salt an’ battery, boxing my ears. I wisht he would sue Sue, ’twould serve her right.

I’ll not get to bed fore midnight if I write enny more. I’m yawning now like a dying fish. So, farewell my diry till the next time. I give them cards all back fore dinner-time. There’ll be a row, I expect. I’ve laughed myself almost to fits a thinkin’ of the feller wot I give “The Portrait of a Donkey” to. He looked so cress fallen. I do believe he cried. They were teazin’ ma to let ’em give a party nex’ week wen I got home to dinner. I don’t believe one of them young gentlemen will come to it; the girls have give ’em all away. I don’t care tuppence. Wot for do they take such libertys with my ears if they want me to be good to ’em.

P.S.--I bet their left ears are burning wuss’n ever mine did!

_WANDERING MINSTRELS_

MRS. BROWN AND THE GERMAN BAND

Oh, I don’t think as I ever did ’ave sich a ’ead-ache as that arter we’d been to ’Ampton Court, as I do believe a-settin’ on the grass ’ad struck to me, and cold weal and ’am pie and cowcumber is wittles as along with lobster salad and red currant tart you did ought to be cautious ’ow you takes, and not ’urry thro’ it with all that confusion, and you don’t know what you are a-takin’. And young ’Awkins as were attentive to me kep’ a-fillin’ up my plate and glass every time as I turned my ’ead away a minit, as ’ave know’d ’im from a child, and what with the confusion at the train a-gettin’ back, I were that dizzy as I got into the wrong cab, as thro’ a mistake drove me werry near to Nottin’-’ill afore I could make the stupid feller understand as I wanted South Lambeth, and then to stand me out as I said Bayswater.

It was past one in the mornin’ when I got ’ome, and ’ad to knock Brown up, as were that savage, and all his own fault thro’ not a-lookin’ arter me at the Waterloo Station, thro’ ’avin’ got out at Wauxall, as is certingly nearest, thro’ bein’ not five minits from our door, yet ’ow was I to know as we’d got parted a-gettin’ into the train, and me that dead beat as to fall asleep the werry moment as I were in the train, and never opened my eyes till the man come for the ticket, and a nice trouble I ’ad to find mine and every one in the carriage a-goin’ on at me as is their larkin’ ways of a Sunday night.

Well, as I said afore never did I ’ave sich a ’eadache, as were downright splittin’, and openin’ and a-shettin’ jest like water-works. I ’adn’t took no dinner, so was a-thinkin’ as I’d ’ave a early cup of tea, and was a-settin’ quiet in my front parlour with the blinds drawed down, a-thinkin’ as I might get a nap and be fresh for my tea.

I’d put my feet up on the sofy, as isn’t a thing as I do one time in a thousand, and was a-droppin’ off, when of all the ’owlin’, gruntin’ and squeakin’ noises as ever you ’eard it broke out in our street. I says, “they must be lunatics broke loose, a-makin’ free with them hinstruments, as wouldn’t never make that noise left to theirselves or used proper.”

I gets up and goes to the winder, and I see about four of them German boys a-playin’ away on trombones, like mad, and one on ’em a-tryin’ our gate.

So I knocks at the winder, and shakes my ’ead at ’im, he opens the gate and comes in up to the winder as I opens, and says, “Go along. I don’t want no more of your noise.”

He goes on with ’is gibberish rubbish, and I only says to ’im, “Get out!” and shets down the winder.

Well, them young waggerbones kep’ on a-blowin’ and ’owlin’, like any one in tortures till I couldn’t stand it no longer, so I opens the winder ag’in, and ’olds up a jug of water, as the gal ’ad brought me up for the plants, a-making believe to throw it over ’em, when one of them ’Opwoods as lives next door, comes out and tells ’em to go on playin’ and give ’em money.

The row as they kicked up, then, a-blowin’ right at me with them big ’orns of theirn did so aggravate me that I took and chucked all the water slap among ’em, and if one of them young wretches didn’t pick up a big stone and shiver a pane of glass in my front parlour in a jiffey.

I couldn’t stand that, so ketches up the fust thing as come to, and as proved to be the ’arth broom as ’angs with the kittle ’older, and out of the ’ouse I rushes.

Well, them boys took to their ’eels, when they see me comin’ out of the door, and run a little way, and then stopped and picked up stones and sent a reg’lar wolley at me.

I ducked my ’ead in course, as they all went over right into old ’Opwood’s Green-’ouse, as he jest ’ad put up ag’in ’is parlour.

I never ’eard sich a crash, nor yet sich a roar as old ’Opwood give like demented lions, and out he come on the doorstep, jest as them boys sent a second wolley of stones, and one ketched ’im slap in the mouth, and down he went like a dead un, and them young scoundrels was off like the dust afore the wind as the sayin’ is.

If all them ’Opwoods didn’t come out on the doorstep, and give me their Billinsgate, for the old feller’s got two reg’lar brimstones of daughters, besides ’is old wife as is a reg’lar old dragon of Wantage.

They all yells at me “’ow dare you set them boys on to destroy our property.”

I says, “Me set the boys on? I was a-drivin’ them away with their beastly noise a-distractin’ any one, as you’ve been encouragin’.”

“They was playin’ beautiful,” says one of them Miss ’Opwoods, “my favourite Waltz.”

I says, “So I should think jest the music fit for you to dance to,” for she’s forty-five, and got a ’ump back, and as ugly as she’s wicious.

“Oh, you old cat,” she says to me, a-gnashin’ ’er teeth, “’ow I should like to tear your old wig off.”

I says, “No doubt, for I’m sure you wants one bad enough.”

“Come in Julia,” says the old mother. “Don’t talk to that low old woman.”

“Yes,” I says, “Go in Julia, and ’elp your ma skin the cat.”

Down the steps come the old woman, and says, “You audacious falsehood; I’ll punish you.”

I’d got to my gate by that time. So I says to ’er, “Stand off you wile filthy old wretch, don’t dare cross my doorstep!” and ’olds up the ’arth broom at ’er.

Her two daughters, a-seein’ me threatenin’ ’er come up, and says, “Ma, dear, come in.”

“Yes,” I says, “Ma dear, do, or else the police may come by, and you may get give in charge ag’in as you was the week afore last,” for the old man ’ad been ’ad up for cruelty to animals twice.

They was all a-goin’ to fly out when a bobby come round the corner, and as soon as they see ’im, they made faces at me, and was a-goin’ off.

I says, “Oh, pray don’t ’urry, here is the police.”

I says to the perliceman, “’Ave you ’ad any one up lately hereabouts for cruelty to animals”; and in they goes and bangs their doors; and well they might, for that wicked old wretch had been destroyin’ of cats brutally, and they’d fined ’im for it; and I do believe as the old woman did use to skin cats, for she wore a fur tippet in the winter as was cats’ skins all over.

But law, ’ow singler things do come ’ome to parties sometimes, to be sure; for it wasn’t but the next Sunday evenin’ arter, as I were alone in the ’ouse, and went out in the front jest to look at some stocks as Brown ’ad planted the night afore, when I thought as I ’eard groans from next door, as is ’Opwood’s.

I listens, and says to myself, “That’s some one in pain or I’m a Dutchman.” So I goes closer to their wall and ’ears them groans and smells burnin’.

So knowin’ as somethink were wrong I ’urries to their door and knocks, but no one a-comin’, I says, “They’re all gone out,” and was a-goin’ away, for I didn’t ’ear no more groans, but I smelt the burnin’; so I says, “No doubt I shall only get insults for my pains, but I’ll try and go in and see what’s amiss.” So I makes my way round to their back door, as were only on the latch, and in I goes, and the smell of burnin’ was downright sickenin’; I goes straight into the front kitchen, and there was old ’Opwood a-layin’ in the fender a-roastin’ as ’ad fell out of ’is chair in a fit.

I ’auls ’im up, and never did see sich a sight as one side of ’is face and all ’is neck and shoulder. The boy jest then come round with the eight o’clock beer, so I ’ollers to ’im to run for a doctor, and I got ’old ’Opwood some’ow into ’is chair, as was quite insensible.

As luck would ’ave it, the doctor jest round the corner were at ’ome, and come at once, and we got the old man’s burns dressed, as I considers there’s nothink finer than whitin’, as the doctor agreed to.

If you’d seen that old Mother ’Opwood’s face and ’er daughters, when they come in jest on ten and found me a-lookin’ arter that old man, as we’d got up on to a sofy in the front parlour.

She begun to scream and holler at fust, and then said as I’d been and done it.

I wasn’t the least put out with ’er, but only says to ’er daughters, “Keep ’er quiet”; which they did by draggin’ on ’er up-stairs, where they kep’ ’er, and I must say, as they spoke werry ’andsome to me, as stopped along with the old man till jest on twelve.

I didn’t think as the old man would ’ave lived thro’ it, but he did, and ’ad his senses back, and able for to talk by the end of the week, and told us as he remembered a-pitchin’ forard ag’in the bars a-tryin’ to get a light for ’is pipe.

He never will be the same man as he were, but it’s been a lesson to ’im and to them, too, not to leave him alone, nor yet to be that insultin’ to a neighbour as they have been to me, a-doin’ everythink to annoy me, and turnin’ me into every redicule as the ’uman ’art can think on.

But they’ll never encourage them orgins and bands as they did use to, and ’ave them inside their gardin’ to play when I’d sent them away, and no doubt we should get on better for the future to come, but I’m glad as we’re a-goin’ to move away, and all as I wants is to part friends, for as to livin’ friendly next door to them I never could.

_Fun_, 1868.

STREET MUSICIANS

By OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

You’re sitting on your window seat Beneath a cloudless moon; You hear a sound that seems to wear The semblance of a tune, As if a broken fife should strive To drown a cracked bassoon.

And nearer, nearer still, the tide Of music seems to come, There’s something like a human voice And something like a drum; You sit in speechless agony, Until your ear is numb.

Poor “Home, Sweet Home” would seem to be A very dismal place; Your “Auld Acquaintance,” all at once, Is altered in the face; Their discords sting thro’ Burns and Moore, Like hedgehogs dressed in lace.

You think they are crusaders sent From some infernal clime, To pluck the eyes of Sentiment And dock the tail of Rhyme, To crack the voice of Melody And break the legs of Time.

But, hark! the air again is still, The music all is ground, And silence like a poultice comes To heal the blows of sound; It cannot be--it is, it is-- A hat is going round!

No! pay the dentist when he leaves A fracture in your jaw, And pay the owner of the bear That stunned you with his paw, And buy the lobster that has had Your knuckles in his claw.

But if you are a portly man, Put on your fiercest frown, And talk about a constable To turn them out of town; Then close your sentence with an oath, Then shut the window down!

And if you are a slender man, Not big enough for that, Or if you cannot make a speech Because you are a flat, Go very quietly and drop A button in the hat!

THE BOHEMIAN GIRL

ADAPTED TO THE MEANEST CAPACITY

Miss Rainforth, one day Having gone out to play, (Then a very young lady) was hurried, By a shocking fierce man, From a vagabond clan, Away to the green-room, quite flurried!

This abduction, so free, Was lamented in D, With a pathos quite like Catalani, By her father, Arnheim, Who sung out in slow time; (Count Arnheim was play’d by Borrani).

But, lo! after act one, Without help of the “sun,” Or (as Wordsworth has said) of the “shower,” This damsel so nice, With a very sweet voice, Grew twelve inches in less than an hour!

And, having now seen, Summers full seventeen, Her heart could not wholly withstand The very soft “sawder” Of a dashing marauder Named Harrison--one of the band.

So the maid, in reply, After heaving a sigh, Sang a song--now the darling of Fame, Which, if not quite grammatical, Was very poetical, That Harrison “lov’d her the same.”

As we’ve all heard a few Of the stories so new About gipsies and children, I ween, I need scarcely relate, How a fortunate fate Gave Borrani again his Arline.

Suffice it to say, In a summary way, That a chain, round her neck which she wore, By a stern new policeman, Accustomed to seize men, Was carried a justice before:

That she knew not the theft; That the chain was a gift From her supposititious mamma; And this damsel so nice, (With a very sweet voice) In the magistrate found her papa!

We have then, a third act; A most curious fact; Which none understood, till they knew The author had thought, That in justice he ought A _moral_ to add to the two.

So a lesson he gave (This poet so grave,) To singers and men; and the fall Of Miss Betts, at the end, By the hand of a friend, Was felt as the moral by all.

_Punch_, 1844.

“TURNED OUT”

At a Cosmopolitan Club they were discussing the relative position of various countries as musical centres. Germany seemed to have the most votaries, much to the evident displeasure of one excitable Italian. “Italy is turning out the most musicians, and has always turned out the most,” he cried.

“Ach Gott!” exclaimed one of the Germans. “Can you blame her?”

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE OPERA

BY W. M. THACKERAY.

I’ve known a god on clouds of gauze With patience hear a people’s prayer, And, bending to the pit’s applause, Wait while the priest repeats the air.

I’ve seen a black-wigg’d Jove hurl down A thunderbolt along a wire, To burn some distant canvas town, Which--how vexatious!--won’t catch fire.

I’ve known a tyrant doom a maid (With trills and _roulades_ many a score) To instant death. She, sore afraid, Sings; and the audience cries encore.

I’ve seen two warriors in a rage Draw glist’ning swords, and--awful sight!-- Meet face to face upon the stage To sing a song, but not to fight!

I’ve heard a king exclaim “To arms” Some twenty times, yet still remain; I’ve known his army ’midst alarms, Help by a bass their monarch’s strain.

I’ve known a hero wounded sore With well-tuned voice his foes defy; And warbling stoutly on the floor, With the last flourish fall and die.

I’ve seen a mermaid dress’d in blue; I’ve seen a Cupid burn a wing; I’ve known a Neptune lose a shoe; I’ve heard a guilty spectre sing.

I’ve seen, spectators of a dance, Two Brahmins, Mahomet, the Cid, Four Pagan kings, four knights of France, Jove and the Muses--scene Madrid.

_Punch_, 1843.

A WOMAN’S THOUGHTS ABOUT WOMEN

I think Miss Juliet in the play A forward little minx (And Mrs. Grundy likes to say What Mrs. Grundy thinks). Her conduct with R. Montague Seems perfectly absurd, Such bold and brazen language, too, I think I never heard.

I think Othello led a tame And wretched kind of life, With Desdemona What’s-her-name-- His namby-pamby wife. To run away--at such an age-- And with a negro, too! Such conduct even on the stage, I think I never knew.

I think that, as to Beatrice, Her husband was a flat For looking for a life of peace With such a wife as _that_. Her conduct wasn’t over strict For all her length of jaw; And such a muff as Benedict I think I never saw.

I think, when Portia’s lovers came And played at pitch and toss, The gentleman who won that dame Contrived to gain a loss. I think Emilia was a shrew, And Rosalind ill-bred; (But “As you Like It,” _entre nous_, I think I never read).

I think Macbeth was led astray By wicked Lady M. And those three witches. By the way, I don’t think much of _them_. I think Ophelia--that’s a fact-- The best of all the set; But anybody quite so crack’d I think I never met.

_Fun_, 1865.

THE ONION GIRL

(AFTER TENNYSON’S “LADY OF SHALOTTE.”)