_Enter the Duke: A lay figure is also brought on to the stage._
LAY FIGURE. Behold the victims of thy revenge.
[_Grand scena_--_Furies enter and tear the Duke slowly to pieces. The
end of the drama now approaches rapidly, and whilst everything is
trembling in every direction, the Prompter rushes on to the small
piece of stage still remaining, and stabs himself with a pair of
snuffers, and_
THE CURTAIN AND THE THEATRE FALL TOGETHER.
_Punch_, 1844.
[Illustration]
HUMOURS OF THE PLAYHOUSE
[Illustration]
The function of the stage is a much discussed question. We shall
assume that it is first and foremost a place of entertainment. Many
are the comedies, from Shakespeare’s to Shaw’s, that have tickled the
ribs of the “groundlings,” but there is also about stage performances
a frequent element of diversion supplied by effects entirely
unrehearsed. In most cases these “unrehearsed effects” assume the form
of amusing blunders, in others they may be witty impromptus on the
part of an actor or an auditor, “gags,” “wheezes,” what not! A
laughable mistake has often afforded relief to a dull play; while, on
the other hand, it may have been the means of spoiling an otherwise
effective scene.
A curious thing about stage blunders is that, when one of the
characters makes a mistake it is almost a certainty that some other
member or members of the cast will follow suit. It is related of
Charles Matthews, the famous comedian, that if he made one mistake in
the course of a performance he was sure to commit several blunders
before the conclusion of the play; this, no doubt, arising from
over-anxiety to guard against slips. On one occasion he informed an
astonished audience that he saw “a candle going along a gallery with a
man in its hand,” and later in the play he stated that he had “locked
the key and put the door in his pocket.”
John Kemble, according to an anecdote told of him in Tom Moore’s
_Diary_, once made a very ludicrous mistake. He was performing one of
his most famous parts at some country theatre, and, as is common in
some provincial temples of the Drama, a child had been making its
presence very pronounced by emitting the shrill noises peculiar to the
average infant. At last Kemble could bear the infantine interruptions
no longer, and advancing to the front of the stage he assumed his most
tragic air and said--“Ladies and gentlemen, unless the play is
stopped, the child cannot possibly go on.” Kemble’s audience on that
occasion was not like the one in San Francisco in its early days. An
opera company was performing in the rowdy city of the “Pacific Slope,”
when a child in the auditorium created a great disturbance. The burly
gold-seekers, who mainly composed the audience, ordered the players to
stop till the child was finished with its entertainment, as an
infant’s voice was such a rarity in the Wild West at that time that it
awakened pleasant memories of the old home and tugged at the
heart-strings of the rough-and-ready miners. This is a genuine
instance of the play being stopped and “the child going on.”
[Illustration: ENGLISH AS SHE IS SPOKE.
TOUCHSTONE (_to Stage Manager_). ’Ow do you expect me to speak my lines
correct with all that ’owling and ’ooting and ’issing going on in
front?]
[Illustration: CASSIUS.]
[Illustration: ACTING UNDER DIFFICULTIES.
The public insist on seeing their stage favourites, even when they are
not quite fit. A well-known actress sang “Carmen” from a bath-chair
recently. What next?]
A very amusing mistake is laid to the credit of Quin. On one occasion,
while he was acting “Judge Balance” in _The Recruiting Officer_, he
addressed Mrs. Peg Woffington in these terms--
“Sylvia, what age were you when your dear mother married?”
Peg made no reply to the embarrassing query, so Quin proceeded--
“I ask you what age you were when your mother was born?”
Thus going from bad to worse. The actress fortunately did not lose her
presence of mind, and replied--
“I regret I cannot answer your question; but I can tell you how old I
was when my mother _died_.”
Amusement is frequently afforded by some member of the audience losing
himself in the play, and fancying that the scene before him is a page
from real life. When such incidents occur, they form excellent
testimonials to the dramatic abilities of the actors. A striking
instance of this kind is related in connexion with the late Fanny
Kemble. It occurred while she was appearing in Philadelphia as
“Juliet.” She had just repeated the lines--
What’s here? A cup close in my true love’s hand?
Poison, I see, has been his timeless end--
when a tall, lanky, medical student in a stage box, who had evidently
been deeply absorbed in the scene, thrust his hat on his head in great
excitement, crying out in a voice that could be heard all over the
theatre--“Keep him up, Juliet; I’ll run and fetch the stomach pump.”
An incident of a similar nature occurred many years ago at the London
Princess Theatre. A well-known conveyancer, noted for absence of mind,
during a performance of _Macbeth_, one of the witches replying to the
Thane, that they were “doing a deed without a name,” started up
exclaiming, to the bewilderment of the audience--“A ’deed without a
name’! Why, it’s void. It’s not worth sixpence!” The last time Kean
played _Louis XI_ at the Edinburgh Theatre Royal, a young Irishman who
had been sitting spellbound in the stalls, after the attendants had
proclaimed, “The King is dead!” exclaimed, “And may the Lord have
mercy on his guilty soul.”
[Illustration: THE EVER-POPULAR CRIMINAL ON THE STAGE.
Criminals (on the stage) are extraordinarily popular. In real life, we
do not like being stolen from. On the stage, we love to see a fine,
dashing criminal stealing from other people. The worse he is, the louder
we applaud him.]
[Illustration: ON THE STAGE-- --AND OFF.]
Sometimes a voice from the “gods” may be the means of swamping a play.
This was the case with the only dramatic piece ever written by Miss
Braddon, the famous novelist. In one of the acts a child was kidnapped
from its mother, and at the end, when all the characters in the play
were being made happy, the restoration of the child was taken for
granted. This was a dramatic mistake, and while suited for a novel,
was not to be accepted in the theatre. The omission passed unnoticed
for half a minute after the fall of the curtain; then one of the
“gods” leaned over the gallery and coolly inquired--“What about the
kid?” The piece was doomed in the uncontrollable peals of laughter
that followed.
Instances where members of a cast, through ignorance or forgetfulness,
take some scene or dialogue literally, are most mirth-moving, if
somewhat rare. A highly entertaining instance of this kind occurred
once when John Kemble was playing _Hamlet_ in a country town. An
actor, who was sustaining the part of “Guilderstein,” was, or imagined
himself to be, a capable musician. “Hamlet,” in the usual course of
the play, asked him--
“Will you play upon this pipe?”
“My Lord, I cannot.”
“I do beseech you.”
“Well, if your lordship insists upon it, I will do as well as I can.”
And to the great consternation of “Hamlet” and the amazement of the
audience, he proceeded to play “God Save the King.”
A delightful piece of literalism is told about a property man who on
one occasion was deputizing at a rehearsal of _Macbeth_ in which a
well-known actor was filling the title rôle. Here is a scrap of the
dialogue--
_Property Man._ As I looked towards Birnam, anon, methought the wood
began to move.
_Macbeth_: Liar and slave!
_P.M._: S’help me bob, sir, the blokes told me to say so.
To ludicrous instances there is no end; but perhaps one of the most
comical occurred in a wretched little French theatre during the time
of the first Revolution. Madame de Larme, who was playing “Juliet” on
the occasion, was lying in the death scene on a tombstone. Outside, it
was raining in torrents. A drop came through the roof and fell on
“Juliet’s” nose. She made a face. Another drop found its way to her
eyelid. She winked. Finally, she took to watching the drops and
dodging them. The situation was at once appreciated by the audience,
and it sympathized with the actress.
“Look out, Mrs. Juliet,” said one fellow, “there’s a big one coming. I
see it.”
“Mind your eye,” said another.
“Madame,” said a third, rising, “will you accept my umbrella?”
But “Juliet” bore up bravely to the end, and finished the scene amid
the applause of a sympathetic audience.
In a Glasgow theatre some forty years ago, the playgoers were treated
to a very diverting scene that was not in the programme. The play was
_After Dark_, and in one of the acts there is a very exciting railway
scene in which a train crosses the stage just as one of the characters
who has been tied to the rails is released. The manner in which the
train is manipulated is very simple. A number of men, concealed behind
it, run across the stage. On this occasion the man who was working the
engine tripped and fell, carrying the engine with him, when about
halfway across the stage. The man in charge of the tender, not having
time to clear out of the way, fell over the engine-keeper, and the
third fell over him, the curtain being run down on the most exciting
railway disaster that ever occurred in Stageland, the audience
laughing heartily the while.
[Illustration: WHEN ACTORS ARE MEMBERS OF PARLIAMENT.]
[Illustration: WHEN ACTORS BECOME MODEST.]
[Illustration: COMEDIAN. Is your play still running?
TRAGEDIAN. No--but the manager is!]
At a theatre in Glasgow the writer witnessed a very amusing incident
in the course of a representation of _Theodora_ by Miss Grace
Hawthorne’s Company. There is a tremendously “bluggy” scene in this
drama, which closes with the heroine standing in the middle, while a
collection of corpses strew the stage. On the night in question the
drop curtain refused to perform its office, and after coming half-way
down complacently stuck there. The dead bodies lay in dreadful
suspense for some time, and then in despair got up and walked off!
[Illustration: BILL. See that cove, ’Arry? He takes the part of Hamlet.
’ARRY. Well, good luck to him if the bloke’s in the right.]
While this immensely delighted a nineteenth-century audience as an
absurdity, it appears to have been quite the custom on the Restoration
Stage, when players “died” in front of the curtain and were either
carried off or walked away afterwards! This is seen from the famous
epilogue spoken by Nell Gwynne in Dryden’s _Tyrannick Love_. She
played a serious part on this occasion, and in the last act stabs
herself twice, and dies. She lies dead on the stage; then, when the
bearer comes to carry her off, she starts to her feet, exclaiming--
“Hold! Are you mad? You damned confounded dog! I am to rise and speak
the epilogue.”
[Illustration: GOOD AND BAD BUSINESS AT THE THEATRE.
When a play is a success the theatre-goer is treated with less
consideration than when it is a failure. In the latter case he is
overwhelmed with attention and kind words.]
[Illustration]
Stage “waves” have often afforded no little amusement to the audience.
The troubled ocean is simulated on the stage by a number of men lying
on their backs under a painted canvas, kicking their legs and throwing
their arms about with a certain amount of regularity, the men being
blindfolded to prevent the dust getting into their eyes. During a
performance of the _Black Flag_, at Dundee, a scene in which the waves
were required was introduced and went with its usual success till one
evening the curtain got entangled with the sea-cloth, and on the
former being raised it carried the latter with it, exposing to the
view of the audience the group of wave-makers lying on their backs
vainly kicking the air. The audience, of course, screamed with
laughter, which set the wave men wondering, and, thinking something
was amiss, they unfastened the bandages over their eyes and discovered
their undignified positions, quitting the stage with the greatest
rapidity. The audience were not in a mood for settling down to watch
the surging sea after this, and the remainder of the scene was omitted
from that performance.
In this connexion the experience of a well-known comedian who started
his career as a humble “wave,” will afford the reader some merriment.
He writes:--“At last the shipwreck came on, and I was hustled under
the sea-cloth along with a dozen other ‘supes.’ Our business was to
make the sea rise in its might and wreck the gallant ship. We had been
repeatedly cautioned at rehearsal not to use our hands, but to go down
on all fours and produce the foaming billows by ‘humping’ our backs up
and down. This was a very trying exercise; it was much easier to use
our hands, though it gave to the rolling billows a jagged and
unnatural appearance, and when the dry white paint sifted freely
through the cloth, covering us up, choking and blinding us as the
climax approached, I commenced in a fit of desperation to use my
hands, so as to dodge the foam as much as possible, and keep it from
totally blinding me. But I was soon perceived by the stage carpenter,
who instantly dived under the cloth, labouring under wild excitement,
and commenced cursing me in dumb show for not ‘humping’ my back as I
had been told to do. He was so fierce that I quickly edged away from
him. This made him worse. He signalled me to come back. I edged away a
little further, and a moment later stood up through a hole in the
cloth, as big as a barn door, in the midst of the angry breakers, and
covered from head to foot with the white powder. There was not a sound
in the house until I gave a terrible ‘chahoo!’ and suddenly dived back
under the waves. Then you could not have heard the report of an
eighty-ton gun a hundred yards away.”
[Illustration: DISTINGUISHED AMATEUR (_who has been cast for the part of
Sir Toby Belch_). I suppose I shall want a little padding?
COSTUMIER. Certainly. (_Shouting_) Ernest, bring down a full-size
stomach!]
A very droll interruption occurred one evening in a St. Helens theatre
when the late Signor Foli was singing. The celebrated bass had just
finished the first verse of his favourite song, “The Raft,” when a
baby started squalling, and still continued as he began the second
verse, commencing--
Hark! What sound is that
Which greets the mother’s ear?
but he got no further, being seized with uncontrollable laughter,
which for the moment puzzled the audience, but presently it dawned
upon them that the next line was--
’Tis, ’tis a baby’s voice;
and they joined the Signor in his mirth. He left the stage for a
moment, and returned and sang in his exquisite style “Out on the
Deep.”
[Illustration: THE ACTOR’S ONE TOPIC--HIMSELF.
Actors are charming people, but unfortunately they are so keen about
their work, that their thoughts constantly recur to it, and they cannot
keep their own latest achievements out of the talk. A lunch at an
actors’ club is apt, in consequence, to be a trifle monotonous.]
[Illustration: A SIDE-BOX TALK.
ROGUY AND POGUY.
ROGUY. See that girl looking at me, Poguy?
POGUY. Don’t I? I declare she can’t keep her eyes off you.
ROGUY. What women care for, Poguy, my boy, is not features, but
expression.
[_He pokes Poguy in the waistcoat._]
Many good stories are told of the facetiousness of Dublin audiences.
Here is one that Macready used to relate:--One night while performing
“Pierre” in _Venice Preserved_, the Jaffier, an actor ponderous in
person as well as in style, was drowsing out his dying speech, when a
voice from the gallery exclaimed, “Ah, now, die at once!” to which
another from the opposite side of the house responded, “Hould your
tongue, you blackguard!” then, in a patronising tone to the Jaffier,
“Take your time now!”
There was humour, and what is often much akin to that, pathos, in the
appeal wrung from the unlucky representative of crook-backed Richard,
who, finding it impossible to make head against the disapprobation
evoked by his histrionic efforts, dropped blank verse, and in very
plain prose told his audience--“Mr. Kean is playing this part in
London at a salary of thirty pounds a night; I receive but fifteen
shillings a week; and if it isn’t good enough for the money, may
Heaven give you more humanity!”
At a crowded country theatre in France a woman fell from the gallery
into the pit, and was picked up by one of the spectators, who, hearing
her groaning, asked her if she was much injured. “Much injured!”
exclaimed the woman; “I should think I am. I have lost the best seat
in the very middle of the front row.”
[Illustration]
THE BALD BARON
OR, THE FALSE HEIR AND THE ABSENT WILL
A SENSATIONAL DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS.
[Illustration: BALD BARON. Alas, noble stranger, my heir was taken off
eighty years ago!]
[Illustration: NOBLE STRANGER. Yer’s a-go--old man, be-hold thy
long-lost chyield.]
(_They embrace._)
[CURTAIN.
ACT I.
[Illustration: AGNES. Oh, agonies! sixty years have I waited for my
Willie. Oh, will _he never come_.]
[Illustration: (_Enter_) FALSE HEIR. Beauteous Screecher, fly with
me--(_Agnes faints_)--ha, ha, she’s mine. Away!]
[Illustration: (_Enter_ WILL.) Where there’s a will there’s a way.]
[CURTAIN.
ACT II.
[Illustration: _Scene, the private pass and the seedy glen._]
[Illustration: WILL. Treachery; I’ve got a drop too much.]
[Illustration: FALSE HEIR. One down, who’ll make two?
AGNES (_suddenly entering_). Vill-ian--you!]
[CURTAIN.
ACT III.
[Illustration: Terrific combat of many hours’ duration.]
[Illustration: FALSE HEIR (_mortally wounded_). My time has come--Here
are the papers--You are the Baron de la Bluebags.]
[_Grand display of blue-fire, and fall of_ CURTAIN.
ACT IV.
[Illustration: FUN AT THE PLAY
HE. Excuse me, madam, but you are sitting on my hat.
SHE. Oh, I’m so sorry; I thought it was my husband’s.]
[Illustration: THE DELIGHTS OF THEATRE-GOING.
The pleasures of the cloak-room. No less than one attendant to each
million hats and coats. Charge only sixpence (exclusive of tip), and
every customer is allowed to fish out his own wearing apparel from the
pile, if he can find it. Each attendant guaranteed to be innocent of all
knowledge of figures, so that every client gets the wrong things. This
adds a gambling interest to the general scuffle.]
[Illustration: THE DELIGHTS OF THEATRE-GOING.
The unmannerly rush for drinks and smokes between the acts. As the space
between the rows of seats is so narrow, the drinking brigade have to
tread on those they leave behind, tearing frocks, smashing corns, and
elbowing inoffensive ladies and gentlemen in the face.]
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.”
[Illustration: DAUGHTER. What do you think of the quartette?
GRUMPY FATHER. Humph, won’t take as long as four solos!]
[Illustration: “My dear Lady Thompson, I had no idea you’d broken your
arm.”
“Don’t be alarmed, dear. These horrid people would never have let Fido
in, so I had recourse to a little ruse!”]
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.
[Illustration: A MORNING CONCERT.
WIFE. George! George! You are not in church!]
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._
[Illustration]
[Illustration: PIT, BOXES AND GALLERY.]
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.
[Illustration: PLAYGOERS AND THEIR ECCENTRICITIES.
Chief eccentricity is the amazing mania for rushing out of the theatre
before anybody else, in order that you may stand firmly at the door,
preventing everybody from getting away.]
[Illustration: CREDIT WHERE CREDIT IS DUE.
At a theatrical first night there were loud cries on the part of the
audience for the scene painter, whose splendid work had contributed
largely to the success of the piece. Now certain other functionaries in
theatres think they should be called out also.]
[Illustration: A “CIVIL” RETORT.
CAPTAIN DE PLUNGER. I say! aw--you tha-ar--are you, aw--the boxkeepar?
CIVILIAN FELLOW. No, my boy; I’m not. Are you?]
* * * * *
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._
[Illustration: AMONG THE AMATEURS]
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.
[Illustration: AT A FANCY BALL. VOICE WITHIN (_to waiter_). I’m
starving! For goodness sake, get a can opener. I can’t get this beastly
visor up.]
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration: PRIVATE THEATRICALS--THE MOUSTACHES.
LADY B. (_a wicked Marquis_). But have you made me fierce enough,
Charles?
CHARLES. Fierce!--ferocious!]
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration: PRIVATE THEATRICALS AT THE TITWILLOWS’.
Mr. Titwillow, having undertaken a comic part, is about to render his
appearance more effective by reddening the tip of his dear little nose.
His wife, mother, and sister, in a passionate appeal to his nobler
feelings, implore him not to desecrate his dignity by such an act.
[_His bosom friend cynically contemplates the touching family scene._]
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.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE POETS’ CORNER
PORTRAIT OF A GENTLEMAN
In the act of writing a funny poem, that will make you die of laughing
when you read it.
[_The enlarged photograph on the wall represents the same party when
not engaged in comic composition._]
THE POETS AT PLAY
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration: THE POETS ILLUSTRATED.
1.--“For, indeed, my father did something smack--.”--MERCHANT OF
VENICE.
2.--“Take any shape but that!”--MACBETH.
3.--“Light only on the box.”--BRYANT AND MAY.
4.--“--sigh to think that he had found
His warmest welcome at an inn.”--SHENSTONE.]
* * * * *
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?
[Illustration: NO! DON’T. (PERIOD 1854.)
“So they are sending out books to amuse the poor fellows at Scutari--and
very proper. I will send five-and-twenty copies of my last five-act
tragedy of ‘The Roman Grandmother.’”]
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.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration: THE POETS ILLUSTRATED.
1.--“Dip forward under starry light.”--TENNYSON.
2.--“It sounds to him like her mother’s _Weiss_
Singing----”--LONGFELLOW.
3.--“Off with his head.”--CIBBER.
4.--“A pouncet box which ever an I anon
He gave his nose, and took’t away again,
... and still he smiled.”--SHAKESPEARE.
5.--“Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark
Our coming, and grow brighter when we come.”--BYRON.
6.--“Lightly they’ll speak of the spirit that’s gone.”--WOLFE.
7.--“That we may call these delicate creatures ours--
But not their appetites.”--SHAKESPEARE.]
[Illustration: COUNTRY CRITIC (_who the previous evening patronised
“Muggins’ Travelling Theatre”_). They poets just are clever chaps, and
noa mistake! I see a thing last night as I never wishes to see not noa
better. Darned if I doant thin’k that _Mariar Martin, or the Red Baarn_
arn’t the best play as ever Muster Shakespeare wroat!--(_Period_
1865.)]
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
[Illustration: “What’s ’A-cuba to him, or he to ’A-cuba?”
--SHAKESPEARE.]
[Illustration: “Mark’d you her eye?”
--SHERIDAN.]
[Illustration: “Alarms! Excursions! Parties fighting.”
--SHAKESPEARE.]
[Illustration: “Methinks I scent the morning hair!”
--SHAKESPEARE.]
[Illustration: “Parting is such sweet sorrow.”
--SHAKESPEARE.]
[Illustration:
“I waited for the train at Coventry,
I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge.”
--TENNYSON.]
[Illustration: “My custom always of an afternoon.”
--SHAKESPEARE.]
[Illustration: “Say what can Chloe want? She wants a heart.”
--POPE.]
[Illustration:
“Oh! too convincing--dangerous dear--
In woman’s eye, th’ unanswerable _tear_.”
--BYRON.]
POETS AND THEIR PATRONS
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration: MY
Manuscripts.
BY
PHYLLIS TYNE]
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!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
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?
[Illustration]
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!”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration: MAINLY ABOUT AUTHORS
WOULD-BE NOVELIST (_writes_). Even as he read the letter, De Brooke’s
face blanched. The dreaded blow had fallen! The estate would never be
his--and he must be content with a mere existence on a paltry nine
hundred a year.]
[Illustration: LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET]
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.’”
[Illustration: DESCEND, YE NINE.]
[Illustration: PERFECT SINCERITY, OR, THINKINGS ALOUD.
GENIUS. By the way, did you glance over that article of mine on “The
Intellect of Woman, and her Social Position?” I don’t care twopence
about your opinion; only, if you can say something favourable, of course
I shall be pleased.
COMMON SENSE. Why, I tried to get through it, but upon my life, I found
it such contemptible rubbish, that I couldn’t get on; and, to tell you
the truth, I think that a snug little thing in the cheese-mongering line
would be more in your way than literature.
GENIUS. Ah, you must be a fool!]
[Illustration: HISTORY--THE ANCIENT BRITONS.
EMILY (_reads_). In the summer they were naked, and instead of clothes
they put paint upon their bodies. They were fond of a fine blue colour,
which they made of a plant called woad, which they found in their woods.
They squeezed out the juice of the woad, and then stained themselves all
over with it, so that in summer they looked as if they were dressed in
tight blue clothes.
ARTHUR. And did they walk in the park and go to church so?]
[Illustration: A RURAL STUDY.
BURLESQUE-WRITER FORCING PUNS.]
[Illustration: GENIUS. Ha! I may be unrecognized, my dear, but I’ll have
my revenge on posterity. When the great cypher work is dug out of the
Thames it will show that everything Meredith, Hardy, Kipling and Marie
Corelli ever wrote was _mine_--_mine!_]
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.
[Illustration: AUTHOR’S MISERIES.
Having corresponded with Miss Rudge, the gifted poetess (authoress of
“Floranthe,” “The Lovelock of Montrose,” “Moans of the Heartstrings,”
etc.), and exchanged portraits and your own poems with her, you meet at
last.
You are disappointed in her appearance and find her about forty years
older than her picture; perhaps you, too, have grown rather fat and
seedy since yours was taken twenty years ago.]
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.
[Illustration: AUTHORS’ MISERIES.
As you are labouring on your great work (in a style, let us add, equal
to the subject), Lady Anna Maria Tomnoddy’s compliments arrive, and she
requests you will cast your eye over the accompanying manuscript in six
volumes, “The Mysteries of Mayfair,” correct the errors, if any, and
find a publisher for the same.
N.B.--You have in your bookcase Captain Bangle’s “Buffaloes and Banyan
Trees,” in MS.; the Rev. Mr. Growl’s “Sermons to a Congregation at
Swansea,” ditto ditto; Miss Piminy’s “Wildflower Coronal, a Wreath of
Village Poesy”; and Mr. Clapperton’s six manuscript tragedies; of all of
which you are requested to give your opinion.]
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.
[Illustration: AUTHORS’ MISERIES.
Perhaps you flatter yourself that you have made an impression on Miss
Flannigan (at Worthing), and you find her asleep over your favourite
book.]
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.
[Illustration: AUTHORS’ MISERIES.
As you are conducting Lady Gotobed to her carriage from Lady Highjink’s
“noble party,” and fancying yourself a man of fashion, you hear the
servants in the hall saying one to another, “that’s him--that’s
Poonch!”]
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.”
[Illustration:
_______
{ }
{ @ | @ }
{ ^ }
( \_/ )
( - )
The man who likes a joke.]
[Illustration:
_______
{ }
{ @ | @ }
{ ^ }
( /⏠\ )
( - )
The man who doesn’t.]
The printer can also make fun with a few brackets and other
typographical oddments, as shown above.
[Illustration: AUTHORS’ MISERIES.
_Old Gentleman._ _Miss Wiggets._ _Two Authors._
OLD GENTLEMAN. I am sorry to see you occupied, my dear Miss Wiggets,
with that trivial paper _Punch_. A railway is not a place, in my
opinion, for jokes. I never joke--never.
MISS W. So I should think, sir.
OLD GENTLEMAN. And besides, are you aware who are the conductors of that
paper, and that they are Chartists, Deists, Atheists, Anarchists, and
Socialists, to a man? I have it from the best authority, that they meet
together once a week in a tavern in Saint Giles’s, where they concoct
their infamous print. The chief part of their income is derived from
threatening letters which they send to the nobility and gentry. The
principal writer is a returned convict. Two have been tried at the Old
Bailey; and their artist--as for their artist....
GUARD. Swin-dun! Sta-tion!
[_Exeunt two Authors._]
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.”
☟ ☟ ☟ ☟ ☟ ☟
[Illustration: AUTHORS’ MISERIES.
The printer’s boy is sitting in the hall; the editor has written to say
that your last contributions are not up to the mark, and that you must
be more funny, if you please. Mr. Snip, the tailor, has called again
that morning; you have a splitting headache, from a transaction
over-night, and as you are writing an exceedingly light and humorous
article, your dear Anna-Maria wishes to know how you _dare_ dine at
Greenwich, and with whom you dined?
I suppose she found the bill in your coat-pocket. How changed Anna-Maria
is from what she was when you married her! and how uncommonly
ill-tempered she has grown!
_Mr. Tims and a Good-natured Friend._
G.-N. F. Have you read the _Macadamiser_, Tims?
T. Hem! no. _Do_ people read the _Macadamiser_?
G.-N. F. He, he! I say, Tims, there’s a most unjustifiable attack upon
you in it. Look here. (_He kindly takes out the “Macadamiser.”_)
T. (_reads_). “This person is before us again. He is ignorant, vulgar,
and a Cockney. He is one of that most contemptible race of men, a
professional buffoon. He is,” etc., etc. (_Tims reads ad libitum._)
Thank you, my dear fellow; it was uncommonly good-natured of you to
bring the critique.]
[Illustration]
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!
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration: “Is this a libery?”
“Yes.”
“Then let me have the last number of _Hemily Fitz-Hosborn_.”]
[Illustration: THE EDITOR IN HIS DEN
THE EDITOR AT HOME.
MARY. Please, sir, I’ve been looking everywhere for the third volume of
that book you was reading.
LODGER. Oh, I took it back to the library this morning. I----
MARY. Oh! then will you tell me, sir, if as how the “Markis” found out
as she’d pisoned ’er two fust ’usbands?]
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?
[Illustration: ROMANCE OF ADVERTISING.
“I wish, mister, you’d be so good as to stop the Press and put this in a
good place (_reads_): ’Hemily. Don’t delay, but return to yer
broken-arted Adolphus, or there’s no knowing what may be the
consequence!!!’”]
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--
[Illustration: ARTIST POET. Yes, I consider that to be one of my most
brilliant effects. It is entitled “Pirates surprised at sunset.”
EDITOR. Great Scott! Poor fellows, I don’t wonder they were surprised at
it!]
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. |
+----------------------------+
[Illustration: FANCY PORTRAIT--
OLIVER TWIST.]
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.”
[Illustration: A FACT!
_Little Quiller has a great idea of the dignity of literature as a
profession, as also of its professors generally--Quiller particularly.
He has submitted a large parcel of MS. to a publisher for approval, and
calls to ascertain the result._
PUBLISHER (_loq._). Hoh! Mr. Quiller? Yes, sir, I’ve not read your
stuff, but I’ll tell you what I’ll do; I’ll take it on spec, and toss
you--sudden death--ten bob or nothin’ for it!
[_Poor little Quiller_]
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.
[Illustration: Locke on the Human Understanding.]
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.”
[Illustration: Burton on Melancholy.]
[Illustration: Securing a friend in the Press.]
[Illustration: Jonathan Wild.]
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.
[Illustration: A NEW READING.
_Dedicated to the Publishers of Shilling Shakespeares._
“And when the fit was on him, I did mark----”--_Julius Cæsar_, Act i.
Sc. i.]
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.
[Illustration: STUDIES FROM THE STUDY
FIRST STUDENT. Just my luck! I wired to the governor to send me £5 for
some books.
SECOND STUDENT. He refused?
FIRST STUDENT. No, he’s sent the books.]
[Illustration: RETURNED--WITH THANKS.
“If you please, sir, master’s sent back the first volume, and he says,
will you be so good as to let him ’ave the second?”]
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.
[Illustration: A QUEER CUT.
Well! Perhaps Messrs. Quarto, Canto, and Sons, the well known
publishers, have some right to complain of the artist who sent in this
as one of the illustrations for their forthcoming edition of _Byron_.
The artist says it illustrates the line:
“Whacks to receive, and marble to retain.”
_Beppo_, stanza xxxiv.]
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.
[Illustration: THE PURSUIT OF LETTERS.]
[Illustration: THE GRAND MARCH OF INTELLECT.]
[Illustration: LIBRARIAN. You asked to see the catalogue of the letter
P, sir? I’m sorry it’s not yet completed, sir, but I’ve brought you all
there is, as far as it goes.
Depend upon it, the Catalogue of the British Museum is not a work for
one time, but for all ages!]
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.
[Illustration: THE AGE OF INTELLECT.]
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.”
[Illustration: SUBJECT FOR A PICTURE--IRRITABLE GENTLEMAN DISTURBED BY A
BLUEBOTTLE.]
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.
[Illustration: AN AWFUL APPARITION!
MRS. T. (_to T., who has been reading the popular novel_). Pray, Mr.
Tomkins, are you never coming upstairs?
How much longer are you going to sit up with that _Woman in White_?]
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.
[Illustration: HOW NO. 4 ENJOYED HIMSELF.
HOW NO. 7 SUFFERED IN CONSEQUENCE.
THE MUSICAL NEIGHBOUR.]
[Illustration: GENTLEMAN, WISHING TO REFER TO THE CATALOGUE OF THE
BRITISH MUSEUM, IS SHOWN A VERY SMALL PORTION OF THAT WORK.]
[Illustration: PROFESSOR. Of course you will be prepared with your
analytical papers?
UNDERGRADUATE. Anna Lettical? I don’t know her, sir; but I know a
capital song about Annie Laurie, if you’d like to hear that!]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration: MISS FRUMP (_author of the “Ghoul-haunted Grange,” etc.,
etc., etc._). Can your little boy read?
MAMMA (_modestly_). Not very well, as yet.
LITTLE BOY (_pertly_). I can read better than _you_, mamma.
MAMMA. What _do_ you mean, child?
LITTLE BOY. Why, _you_ said you couldn’t read Miss Frump’s new book!
[_Awkward silence._]
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._)
[Illustration: CHAPTER I.]
[Illustration: CHAPTER II.]
[Illustration: CHAPTER III.]
[Illustration: CHAPTER IV.]
[Illustration: CHAPTER V.]
[Illustration: CHAPTER VI.]
[Illustration: CHAPTER VII.]
[Illustration: CHAPTER VIII.]
[Illustration: CHAPTER IX.]
[Illustration: CHAPTER X.]
[Illustration: CHAPTER XI.]
[Illustration: CHAPTER XII.]
[Illustration: CHAPTER XIII.]
[Illustration: CHAPTER XIV.]
[Illustration: CHAPTER XV.]
[Illustration: CHAPTER XVI. (THE END.)]
[Illustration: FUN IN THE STUDIO
IRISH MODEL. Would ye moind telling me, sorr, who was the greatest
arrrtist iver been--av course, prisent company always excepted!]
[Illustration: ARTIST (_to country model_). You’d better “rest” a bit.
Sitting still seems very tiring to you.
MODEL (_mindful of instructions of local photographer’s_). It ain’t the
sitting still, mister. It’s the ’olding me breath!]
* * * * *
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.”
[Illustration: WHOLESALE!
PATRON (_yawning_). Augh, well, these sort of things are all much the
same to me. I’ll take a lot by weight--mounts and all. How much a pound
for this lot?]
[Illustration: “QUALIFICATIONS.”
PAINTER (_who has always been ambitious of “writing himself down an
R.A.”_). Think they might have elected me, having exhibited and had my
name down all these years! I might have----
FRIEND (_man o’ the world_). My dear fellow, I’ve always told you, you
don’t go the right way to work. You see they _could_ only elect you for
your painting, for--why do you wear such thick boots?!!]
[Illustration: BEHIND THE SCENES.
ARTIST. Hullo, Jakes! How’s this? I’ve been trying to do without you--I
thought you said you couldn’t come this morning?
MODEL. So I did, sir! I was engaged to Mr. Macmough, to sit for the legs
in the Dook of Hipswich’s portrait.
ARTIST. Well?
MODEL. Well, sir, whiles I were a-sitt’n, the Dook he come in quite
hunexpected like; an’ when he see me, he says he’d a deal sooner sit for
his legs hisself. So _I_ come on straight here!]
[Illustration: “ASKING FOR IT.”
FEROCIOUS DEALER. Now, if any man will tell me that that’s a copy,
I’ll--I’ll knock him down!--What’s your candid opinion?]
[Illustration: THE COMMERCIAL SIDE.