him by the announcement. I know instantly whether his expression means
'phenomenal' or only 'remarkable,' whether 'distressing' or only 'sad,'
whether----"
"Is there so much difference between 'distressing' and 'sad,' Horace?"
"Oh, yes, aunt. A suicide in Half Moon Street is 'distressing'; in the
City Road it is only 'sad.' Again, a raid on a club in Whitechapel is of
no account; but a raid on a West-End club is worth three lines of large
type in the bill, above Fry's innings."
"Do you mean a club in Soho when you say West-End?"
"Yes, aunt, as a rule."
"But why do you call that the West-End?"
"That was the Thrillometer's doing, aunt. He fell asleep over a club
raid, and a very good one too, when I said it was in Soho; but when I
told him of the next--also in Soho, chiefly Italian waiters--and said
it was in the West-End, his eyes nearly came out of his head. So you see
how useful the Thrillometer can be."
"Most ingenious, Horace. Was this your idea?"
"Yes, aunt."
"Clever boy. And have the other papers adopted it?"
"Yes, aunt. All of them."
"Then you are growing rich, Horace?"
"No, no, aunt, not at all. Unfortunately I lack the business instinct.
Other people grow rich on my ideas. In fact, so far from being rich, I
was going to venture to ask you----"
"Tell me more about the Thrillometer," said the old lady briskly.
* * * * *
[Illustration: AT THE WRESTLING MATCH
_Enthusiastic Old Gent._ "Go on, sonny! Stick 'old of 's 'ead."]
* * * * *
GOING TO THE BAD
All the way from the National Gallery
Unto the Royal Academy
As I walked, I was guilty of raillery,
Which I felt was very bad o' me.
Thinking of art's disasters,
Still sinking to deeper abysses,
I said, "From the Old Masters
Why go to the new misses?"
* * * * *
[Illustration: PREHISTORIC PEEPS
A visit to an artist's studio.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _He._ "Awfully jolly concert, wasn't it? Awfully jolly
thing by that fellow--what's his name?--something like Doorknob."
_She._ "_Doorknob!_ Whom _do_ you mean? I only know of Beethoven,
Mozart, Wagner, Handel----"
_He._ "That's it! Handel. I knew it was something you caught hold of!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: OUR ARTIST
"If you please, sir, here's the printer's boy called again!"
"Oh, bother! Say I'm busy."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: SONGS AND THEIR SINGERS "'Tis hard to give the hand where
the heart can _never_ be!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: SONGS AND THEIR SINGERS. "Only this"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Horse Dealer._ "Did that little mare I sold you do for
you, sir?"
_Nervous Horseman._ "Nearly!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "OPTICS."--_Lecturer._ "Now let anyone gaze steadfastly
on any object--say, for instance, his wife's eye--and he'll see himself
looking so exceedingly small, that----"
_Strong-minded Lady_ (_in front row_). "Hear! Hear! Hear!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "AFTER THE FAIR." (_Country cousin comes up in August to
see the exhibition of pictures at the Royal Academy!_).--_Porter._
"Bless yer 'art, we're closed!"
_Country Cousin._ "Closed! What! didn't it pay?!!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Jones._ "How is it we see you so seldom at the club
now?"
_Old Member._ "Ah, well, you see, I'm not so young as I was; and I've
had a good deal of worry lately; and so, what with one thing and
another, I've grown rather fond of my own society."
_Jones._ "Epicure!"]
* * * * *
THE TRUE INWARDNESS OF ART.--Photographs by the Roentgen rays.
* * * * *
MAN WHO HAS A TURN FOR MUSIC.--An organ-grinder.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE PHONOGRAPH CANNOT LIE.--_German Dealer_ "Now, mein
Herr! You've chust heerd your lofely blaying rebroduced to berfection!
Won't you buy one?"
_Amateur Flautist._ "Are you sure the thing's all right?"
_German Dealer._ "Zertainly, mein Herr."
_Amateur Flautist._ "Gad, then, if that's what my playing is like, I'm
done with the flute for ever."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: PRIVATE INQUIRY.--_Surveyor of Taxes_ (_to literary
gent_). "But surely you can arrive at some estimate of the amount
received by you during the past three years for example. Don't you keep
books?"
_Literary Gent._ (_readily_). "Oh dear no. I write them!"
_Surveyor._ "Ahem--I mean you've got some sort of accounts----"
_Literary Gent._ "Oh yes, lots"--(_Surveyor brightens up_)--"unpaid!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "There's a boy wants to see you, sir." "Has he got a bill
in his hand?" "No, sir." "Then he's got it in his pocket! Send him
away!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: WHAT OUR ARTIST HAS TO PUT UP WITH.--_He._ "By Jove, it's
the best thing I've ever painted!--and I'll tell you what; I've a good
mind to give it to Mary Morison for her wedding present!"
_His Wifey._ "Oh, but, my love, the Morisons have always been _so_
hospitable to us! You ought to give her a _real_ present, you know--a
fan, or a scent-bottle, or something of that sort!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: TRIUMPH
_Frame Maker_ (_in ecstasies_). "By Jove! Jemima--every one of 'em on
the line again!"]
* * * * *
HOW TO BE AN AUTHOR
Mr. Punch, having read the latest book on the way to write for the
press, feels that there is at least one important subject not properly
explained therein: to wit, the covering letter. He therefore proceeds to
supplement this and similar books.... It is, however, when your story
is written that the difficulties begin. Having selected a suitable
editor, you send him your contribution accompanied by a covering letter.
The writing of this letter is the most important part of the whole
business. One story, after all, is very much like another (in your case,
probably, exactly like another), but you can at least in your covering
letter show that you are a person of originality.
Your letter must be one of three kinds: pleading, peremptory, or
corruptive. I proceed to give examples of each.
I.--THE PLEADING LETTER.
199, _Berkeley Square, W._
DEAR MR. EDITOR,--I have a wife and seven starving children; can you
possibly help us by accepting this little story of only 18,000
(eighteen thousand) words? Not only would you be doing a work of charity
to one who has suffered much, but you would also, I venture to say, be
conferring a real benefit upon English literature--as I have already
received the thanks of no fewer than thirty-three editors for having
allowed them to peruse this manuscript.
Yours humbly,
THE McHARDY.
P.S.--My youngest boy, aged three, pointed to his little sister's Gazeka
toy last night and cried "De editor!" These are literally the first
words that have passed his lips for three days. Can you stand by and see
the children starve?
II.--THE PEREMPTORY LETTER.
SIR,--Kindly publish at once and oblige.
Yours faithfully,
EUGENE HACKENKICK.
P.S.--I shall be round at your office to-morrow about an
advertisement for some 600 lb. bar-bells, and will look you up.
III.--THE CORRUPTIVE LETTER.
_Middlesex House, Park Lane, IV._
DEAR MR. SMITH,--Can you come and dine with us quite in a
_friendly_ way on Thursday at eight? I want to introduce you to the
Princess of Holdwig-Schlosstein and Mr. Alfred Austin, who are so
eager to meet you. Do you know I am really a little _frightened_ at
the thought of meeting such a famous editor? Isn't it _silly_ of
me?
Yours very sincerely,
EMMA MIDDLESEX.
P.S.--I wonder if you could find room in your _splendid little
paper_ for a silly story I am sending you. It would be such a
surprise for the Duke's birthday (on Monday).--E. M.
Before concluding the question of the covering letter I must mention the
sad case of my friend Halibut. Halibut had a series of lithographed
letters of all kinds, one of which he would enclose with every story he
sent out. On a certain occasion he wrote a problem story of the most
advanced kind; what, in fact, the reviewers call a "strong" story. In
sending this to the editor of a famous magazine his secretary
carelessly slipped in the wrong letter:
"DEAR MR. EDITOR," it ran, "I am trying to rite you a littel story,
I do hope you will like my little storey, I want to tell you about
my kanary and my pussy cat, it's name is _Peggy_ and it has seven
kitens, have you any kitens, I will give you one if you print my
story,
"Your loving little friend,
"FLOSSIE."
* * * * *
PROVERB FOR THE COUNCIL OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY.--"Hanging goes by favour."
* * * * *
THE ENRAGED MUSICIAN.--(_A Duologue._)
_Composer._ Did you stay late at Lady Tittup's?
_Friend._ Yes. Heard Miss Bang play again. I was delighted with her
execution.
_Composer._ Her execution! _That_ would have pleased _me_; she deserved
it for having brutally murdered a piece of mine.
[_Exeunt._
* * * * *
THE GENTILITY OF SPEECH.--At the music halls visitors now call for
"another acrobat," when they want a second tumbler.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE WRITING ON THE WINDOW
Portrait of a gentleman who proposes to say he was detained in town on
important business.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: AWARDING THE BISCUIT
_Dingy Bohemian._ "I want a bath Oliver."
_Immaculate Servitor._ "My name is _not_ Oliver!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "SENDING-IN" DAY.--Indigo Brown takes his picture,
entitled "Peace and Comfort," to the R.A. himself, as he says, "Those
picture carts are certain to scratch it," and, with the assistance of
his cabby, adds the finishing touches on his way there!]
* * * * *
[Illustration: AN UNDOUBTED OLD MASTER
(_By Himself_)]
* * * * *
[Illustration: LAYING IT ON WITH A PALETTE-KNIFE.--_Miss Sere._ "Ah, Mr.
Brown, if you could only paint me as I was ten years ago!"
_Our Portrait Painter_ (_heroically_). "I am afraid children's portraits
are not in my line."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: AFTER THE SIXTH REJECTION BY THE R.A.--_The Prodigal._
"Well, dad, here I am, ready to go into the office to-morrow. I've given
up my studio and put all my sketches in the fire."
_Fond Father._ "That's right, 'Arold. Good lad! Your 'art's in the right
place, after all!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Brown_ (_as Hamlet_) _to Jones_ (_as Charles the
Second_). "'Normous amount of _taste_ displayed here to-night!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: AN ART PATRON
"I'll have it if you shorten the 'orizon, and make it quids instead of
guineas!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: SHOW SUNDAY.--_Brown_ (_trying to find something to
admire in Smudge's painting_). "By Jove, old chap, those flowers are
beautifully put in!"
_Smudge._ "Yes; my old friend--Thingummy--'R.A.' you know, painted them
in for me."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: ENVY.--Scene--_Miss Semple and Dawber, standing near his
picture._
_Miss Semple._ "Why, there's a crowd in front of Madder's picture!"
_Dawber._ "Someone fainted, I suppose!"]
* * * * *
AN ARTISTIC EPISODE
["Incapacity for work has come to be accepted as the hall-mark of
genius.... The collector wants only the thing that is rare, and
therefore the artist must make his work as rare as he can."--_Daily
Chronicle._]
Josephine found me stretched full length in a hammock in the garden.
"Why aren't you at work?" she asked; "not feeling seedy, I hope?"
"Never better," said I. "But I've been making myself too cheap."
"We couldn't possibly help going to the Joneses last night, dear."
"Tush," said I. "I mean there is too much of me."
"I don't quite understand," she said; "but there certainly will be if
you spend your mornings lolling in that hammock."
The distortive wantonness of this remark left me cold.
"I have made up my mind," I continued, quite seriously, "to do no more
work for a considerable time."
"But, my dear boy, just think----"
"I'm going to make myself scarce," I insisted.
"Geoffrey!" she exclaimed, "I knew you weren't well!"
I released myself.
"Josephine," I said solemnly, "those estimable persons who collect my
pictures will think nothing of them if they become too common."
"How do you know there are such persons?" she queried.
"I must decline to answer that question," I replied; "but if there are
none it is because my work is not yet sufficiently rare and precious. I
propose to work no more--say, for six or seven years. By that time my
reputation will be made, and there will be the fiercest competition for
the smallest canvas I condescend to sign."
She kissed me.
"I came out for the housekeeping-money," she remarked simply.
I went into the house to fetch the required sum, and, by some means I
cannot explain, got to work again upon the latest potboiler.
* * * * *
MUSIC READILY ACQUIRED.--Stealing a march.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE STORM FIEND
SONGS AND THEIR SINGERS]
* * * * *
[Illustration: SUCH IS FAME!--_Duchess_ (_with every wish to encourage
conversation, to gentleman just introduced_). "Your name is very
familiar to me indeed for the last ten years."
_Minor Poet_ (_flattered_). "Indeed, Duchess! And may I ask what it was
that first attracted you?"
_Duchess._ "Well, I was staying with Lady Waldershaw, and she had a most
indifferent cook, and whenever we found fault with any dish she always
quoted _you_, and said that _you_ liked it _so much_!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: DOMESTIC BLISS.--_Wife of your Bussum._ "Oh! I don't want
to interrupt you, dear. I only want some money for baby's socks--and to
know whether you will have the mutton cold or hashed."]
* * * * *
IN A MINOR KEY.--_Hearty Friend_ (_meeting Operatic Composer_). Hallo,
old man, how are you? Haven't seen you for an age! What's your latest
composition?
_Impecunious Musician_ (_gloomily_). With my creditors. [_Exeunt
severally._
* * * * *
TO BE SUNG AT CONCERT PITCH.--"The Tar's Farewell."
* * * * *
[Illustration: SAFE.--_Guest_ (_after a jolly evening_). "Good night,
ol' fellah--I'll leave my boosh oushide 'door----"
_Bohemian Host._ "Au' right, m' boy--(_hic_)--noborry'll toussh
'em--goo' light!!" [_Exeunt._]
* * * * *
CONSOLATIONS FOR THE UNHUNG
Now that the painful month of suspense in Studioland is at an end, it
behoves us to apply our most soothing embrocation to the wounded
feelings of geniuses whose works have boomeranged their way back from
Burlington House. Let them remember:
That very few people really look at the pictures in the Academy--they
only go to meet their friends, or to say they have been there.
That those who _do_ examine the works of art are wont to disparage the
same by way of showing their superior smartness.
That one picture has no chance of recognition with fourteen hundred
others shouting at it.
That all the best pavement-artists now give "one-man" shows. They can
thus select their own "pitch," and are never ruthlessly skied.
That photography in colours is coming, and then the R.A. will have to
go.
That Rembrandt, Holbein, Rubens and Vandyck were never hung at the
summer exhibition.
That Botticelli, Correggio and Titian managed to rub along without that
privilege.
That the ten-guinea frame that was bought (or owed for) this spring will
do splendidly next year for another masterpiece.
That the painter _must_ have specimens of his best work to decorate the
somewhat bare walls of his studio.
That the best test of a picture is being able to live with it--or live
it down--so why send it away from its most lenient critic?
That probably the _chef-d'oeuvre_ sent in was shown to the hanging
committee up-side down.
That, supposing they saw it properly, they were afraid that its success
would put the Academy to the expense of having a railing placed in
front.
And finally, we would remind the rejected one that, after all, his
bantling _has_ been exhibited in the R.A.--to the president and his
colleagues engaged in the work of selection. Somebody at least looked at
it for quite three seconds.
* * * * *
ART NOTE.--_The early Italian style._--An organ-grinder at five o'clock
in the morning.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
* * * * *
[Illustration: OUR FLAT.--_Extract from Lady's Correspondence._ "----In
fact, our reception was a _complete_ success. We had some excellent
musicians. I daresay you will wonder where we put them, with such a
crowd of people; but we managed _capitally_!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: SHOW SUNDAY.--_Vandyke Browne._ "Peace, my dear lady,
peace and refinement, those are the two essentials in an artist's
surroundings." [_Enter Master and Miss Browne. Tableau!_]
* * * * *
[Illustration: VARNISHING DAY AMENITIES.--_Little Smudge._ "Of course, I
know perfectly well my style isn't quite developed yet, but I feel I am,
if I might so express it, in a _transition_ stage, don't you know,"
_Brother Brush_ ("_skied_" _this year_). "Ah! I see, _going from bad to
worse_!"]
* * * * *
THE MIGHTY PEN
["With this little instrument that rests so lightly in the hand, whole
nations can be moved.... When it is poised between thumb and finger, it
becomes a living thing--it moves with the pulsations of the living heart
and thinking brain, and writes down, almost unconsciously, the thoughts
that live--the words that burn.... It would be difficult to find a
single newspaper or magazine to which we could turn for a lesson in pure
and elegant English."--_Miss Corelli in_ "_Free Opinions Freely
Expressed_."]
O magic pen, what wonders lie
Within your little length!
Though small and paltry to the eye
You boast a giant's strength.
Between my finger and my thumb
A living creature you become,
And to the listening world you give
"The words that burn--the thoughts that live."
Oft, when the sacred fire glows hot,
Your wizard power is proved:
You write till lunch, and nations not
Infrequently are moved;
'Twixt lunch and tea perhaps you damn
For good and all, some social sham,
And by the time I pause to sup--
Behold Carnegie crumpled up!
Through your unconscious eyes I see
Strange beauty, little pen!
You make life exquisite to me,
If not to other men.
You fill me with an inward joy
No outward trouble can destroy,
Not even when I struggle through
Some foolish ignorant review;
Nor when the press bad grammar scrawls
In wild uncultured haste,
And which intolerably galls
One's literary taste.
What are the editors about,
Whom one would think would edit out
The shocking English and the style
Which every page and line defile?
There is, alas! no magazine,
No paper that one knows
To which a man could turn for clean
And graceful English prose;
Not even, O my pen, though you
Yourself may write for one or two,
And lend to them a style, a tone,
A grammar that is all your own.
I see the shadows of decay
On all sides darkly loom;
Massage and manicure hold sway,
Cosmetics fairly boom;
Old dowagers and budding maids
Alike affect complexion-aids,
While middle age with anxious care
Dyes to restore its dwindling hair.
The time is out of joint, but still
I am not hopeless quite
So long as you exist, my quill,
Once more to set it right.
Woman will cease from rouge, I think,
Man pour his hair-wash down the sink,
If you will yet consent to give
"The words that burn--the thoughts that live."
* * * * *
A HINT FOR THE PUBLISHERS.
As the publishing season will soon be in full play--which means that
there will be plenty of work--we suggest the following as titles of
books, to succeed the publication of "People I have Met," by an
American:--
People I have taken into Custody, by a Policeman.
People that have Met me Half-way, by an Insolvent.
People I have Splashed, by a Scavenger.
People I have Done, by a Jew Bill-discounter.
People I have Abused, by a 'Bus Conductor.
People I have Run Over, by a Butcher's Boy.
People I have Run Against, by a Sweep.
* * * * *
A ROARING TRADE.--Keeping a menagerie.
* * * * *
[Illustration: COMPLIMENTS ONE MIGHT IMPROVE ON.--_Mrs. Mudge._ "I _do_
admire the women you draw, Mr. Penink. They're _so_ beautiful and _so_
refined! Tell me, _who_ is your model?" [_Mrs. Mudge rises in Mrs.
Penink's opinion._]
_Penink._ "Oh, my wife always sits for me!"
_Mrs. Mudge_ (_with great surprise_). "You don't say so! Well, I think
you're one of the _cleverest_ men I know!" [_Mrs. Penink's opinion of
Mrs. Mudge falls below zero._]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER."--_George_ (_Itinerant
Punch-and-Judy Showman_). "I say, Bill, she _do_ draw!"
_Bill_ (_his partner, with drum and box of puppets_). "H'm--it's more
than _we_ can!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "SELECTION."--_Brown_ (_as he was leaving our Art
Conversazione, after a rattling scramble in the cloak-room_). "Confound
it! Got my own hat, after all!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Eccentric Old Gent_ (_whose pet aversion is a dirty
child_). "Go away, you dirty girl, and wash your face!"
_Indignant Youngster._ "You go 'ome, you dirty old man, and do yer
'air!"]
* * * * *
MUSICAL FACT.--People are apt to complain of the vile tunes that are
played about the streets by grinding organs, and yet they may all be
said to be the music of Handle.
* * * * *
[Illustration: IS THERE ROOM FOR MARY THERE?
SONGS AND THEIR SINGERS]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Photographer._ "I think this is an excellent portrait of
your wife."
_Mr. Smallweed._ "I don't know--sort of _repose_ about the _mouth_ that
somehow doesn't seem right."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE GREAT PRIZE FIGHT.--_Johnnie_ (_who finds that his
box_, L_20_, _has been appropriated by "the Fancy"_). "I beg your
pardon, but this is _my_ box!"
_Bill Bashford._ "Oh, is it? Well, why don't you tike it?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: WITHOUT PREJUDICE.--_Ugly Man_ (_who thinks he's a
privileged wag, to artist_). "Now, Mr. _Daub_igny, draw me."
_Artist_ (_who doesn't like being called _Daub_igny, and whose real name
is Smith_). "Certainly. But you _won't_ be offended if it's _like_ you.
Eh?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Scrimble._ "So sorry I've none of my work to show you.
Fact is, I've just sent all my pictures to the Academy."
_Mrs. Macmillions._ "What a pity! I did so much want to see them. How
soon do you expect them back?"]
* * * * *
THE YOUNG NOVELIST'S GUIDE TO MEDICINE
CHLOROFORM. Invaluable to writers of sensational stories. Every
high-class fictionary criminal carries a bottle in his pocket. A few
drops, spread on a handkerchief and waved within a yard of the hero's
nose, will produce a state of complete unconsciousness lasting for
several hours, within which time his pockets may be searched at leisure.
This property of chloroform, familiar to every expert novelist, seems to
have escaped the notice of the medical profession.
CONSUMPTION. The regulation illness for use in tales of mawkish pathos.
Very popular some years ago, when the heroine made farewell speeches in
blank verse, and died to slow music. Fortunately, however, the public
has lost its fondness for work of this sort. Consumption at its last
stage is easily curable (in novels) by the reappearance of a hero
supposed to be dead. Two pages later the heroine will gain strength in a
way which her doctors--not unnaturally--will describe as "perfectly
marvellous." And in the next chapter the marriage-bells will ring.
[Illustration]
DOCTOR. Always include a doctor among your characters. He is quite easy
to manage, and invariably will belong to one of these three types: (_a_)
The eminent specialist. Tall, imperturbable, urbane. Only comes
incidentally into the story. (_b_) Young, bustling, energetic. Not much
practice, and plenty of time to look after other people's affairs.
Hard-headed and practical. Often the hero's college friend. Should be
given a pretty girl to marry in the last chapter. (_c_) The old family
doctor. Benevolent, genial, wise. Wears gold-rimmed spectacles, which he
has to take off and wipe at the pathetic parts of the book.
FEVER. A nice, useful term for fictionary illnesses. It is best to avoid
mention of specific symptoms, beyond that of "a burning brow," though,
if there are any family secrets which need to be revealed, delirium is
sure to supervene at a later stage. _Arthur Pendennis_, for instance,
had fictional "fever," and baffled doctors have endeavoured ever since
to find out what really was the matter with him. "Brain-fever," again,
is unknown to the medical faculty, but you may safely afflict your
intellectual hero with it. The treatment of fictionary fever is quite
simple, consisting solely of frequent doses of grapes and cooling
drinks. These will be brought to the sufferer by the heroine, and these
simple remedies administered in this way have never been known to fail.
[Illustration]