Chapter IV: Act IV (1)

HE. Excuse me, madam, but you are sitting on my hat.

SHE. Oh, I’m so sorry; I thought it was my husband’s.]

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.]

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.”

GRUMPY FATHER. Humph, won’t take as long as four solos!]

“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.

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._

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.

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.]

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.]

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._

AT THE MASQUERADE

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

THE AMATEUR FLUTE-PLAYER

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

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

LADY B. (_a wicked Marquis_). But have you made me fierce enough, Charles?

CHARLES. Fierce!--ferocious!]

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.

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.

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

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.

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?

“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.

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.

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.]

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

--SHAKESPEARE.]

--SHERIDAN.]

--SHAKESPEARE.]

--SHAKESPEARE.]

--SHAKESPEARE.]

“I waited for the train at Coventry,
I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge.”

--TENNYSON.]

--SHAKESPEARE.]

--POPE.]

“Oh! too convincing--dangerous dear--
In woman’s eye, th’ unanswerable _tear_.”

--BYRON.]

POETS AND THEIR PATRONS

THE PAST.

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

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

THE PRESENT.

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

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!

IV.

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

V.

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

VI.

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

VII.

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

A MAN I HATE

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

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

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

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

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

_Fun_, 1866.

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.]

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.’”

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!]

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?]

BURLESQUE-WRITER FORCING PUNS.]

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

_______
{ }
{ @ | @ }
{ ^ }
( \_/ )
( - )

The man who likes a joke.]

_______
{ }
{ @ | @ }
{ ^ }
( /⏠\ )
( - )

The man who doesn’t.]

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

_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.”

☟ ☟ ☟ ☟ ☟ ☟

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.]

HARRIS-ING REFLECTIONS

_Written after a Visit to the Olympic._

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

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

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

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

_Fun_, 1868.

“Yes.”

“Then let me have the last number of _Hemily Fitz-Hosborn_.”]

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?

“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--

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. |
+----------------------------+

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.