Chapter V: Act IV (2)

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.”

_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.

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

THE JOURNALISTIC INSTINCT.

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

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

APPROVED BY THE EDITOR

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Everybody’s Magazine_ (U.S.A.).

RULES FOR NEWSPAPER CORRESPONDENTS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Punch_, 1844.

_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.

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.]

“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.

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.

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.

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

MORE HUMOURS OF ADVERTISING

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

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

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

The judge says, no resetters, fewer thieves.

Smith says, no foolish buyers, no lying advertisers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

HOW NO. 7 SUFFERED IN CONSEQUENCE.

THE MUSICAL NEIGHBOUR.]

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.

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.

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._)

IRISH MODEL. Would ye moind telling me, sorr, who was the greatest arrrtist iver been--av course, prisent company always excepted!]

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.”

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?]

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?!!]

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!]

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?]

PAINTER. You don’t mean to say you want me to sign it, when I tell you I did not paint it? And a beastly copy it is, too!

PICTURE-DEALER. Vy not, goot sir? vy not? Tut! tut! tut! I only vish you artis’s vos men of bis’ness!]

ART CRITIC. You see you’ve got the duke seated and the duchess standing up. Now couldn’t you make the duchess sitting down and the duke standing up?

[_But Gaddy fears the council will not put off the exhibition for a couple of months to enable him to take advantage of his friend’s valuable suggestion._]

COOK. Laukadaisy me, Miss Mary, if it ain’t a’most like wax-work, I dew declare!]

PAINTER. Wouldn’t care to be a painter, eh?

MODEL. Dear, no, sir! Rather be a doctor--their work ain’t so criticised, and it don’t much matter whether it’s kill or cure.]

BROWN. No; only their mothers.]

PAINTER. Oh! they won’t hang it, I know--’tis of no use sending it.

WIFE. Well, Michael, if you keep it here they won’t hang it, we know--send it and try: they hang bad pictures sometimes.

[_Michael is encouraged._]

LADY. Oh, Mr. Mastic, why do artists have screens about their studios?

ARTIST. To back up the figures, and so on.

LADY. Oh, really! Well, I thought it was to keep the bedstead and all that out of sight, you know.]

IRASCIBLE PATRON (_who has wiped out a good deal of Funkie’s great work_). Confound your nasty picture, sir! See what it has done! The canvas is reeking with paint, sir--positively reeking! It’s disgraceful!

[_Exit in a whirlwind._]

ARTIST (_as a hint to his friend_). Bless me! Five o’clock! I had no idea it was so late. How quickly time does fly now!

YANKEE. Which I calc’late it’s all owin’ to the vast improvements effected in clocks by our great country.]

MARY JANE _in reply to_ OLIVIA.

“The same romantic creature as ever! His name is not Algernon, but plain Robert; and he’s not an Apelles, but a hard-working fellow, with enough of genius to make me proud of him. As to his model--etc., etc.

[_For “The Ideal,” see p. 156._]

At the beginning of April, when every moment is of consequence, Mr. Flake White’s model for Hamlet appears with a black eye, which he declares is the effect of influenza.]

DEALER. Ah! there’s good transparency there. What do you mix your colour with?

ARTIST. Brains.]

_From_ OLIVIA _to_ MARY JANE

“And so, _dearest_, you have married _an artist!_ How like you, who was always such an admirer of the _beautiful_. * * * I can see you ’_in my mind’s eye_’; your Algernon (his name _is_ Algernon, is it not, dearest?) seated like _another_ Apelles at his easel, whilst you, his own Cantaspe, make the most graceful of models. You remember----

“Apelles, when Cantaspe’s form he drew,
Bade her remove the look of love she wore,
Lest others should adore,” etc., etc.

[_For “The Real,” see page 154._]

MISS BRIDGET. Oh! my _dear_ Mr. M’Gilp, we should _both_ be only too delighted! When shall we come to your studio? How shall we dress? and what style of coiffure?

[_Now, what_ is _a fellow to say in such a fix as this?_]

* * * * *

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

“Seven,” the boy replied.

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

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

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

“An’ so ye did, sir, and I came to the door at eight sure enough, but I heard ye was making no noise at all!”

“Well, why the dickens didn’t you knock, and wake me?”

“Sure, and because I feared yez might be fast asleep!”]

Mrs. Fred doesn’t care how long she sits for her “dear Fred,” so long as her “darling Freddy” is in some safe place where he can’t get into mischief.]

CHROME (_to friend_). Well, and how do I get on with the doublet? Is it more like leather?

CONSCIENTIOUS FRIEND. Why, no; I can’t say it is--but (_apologetically_) you’ve got the face very like leather.]

MODEL. Me, sir? Naethin, but just made my whiskers a wee thing decent wi’ the shears.

PAINTER. Then you’re an utterly ruined man, sir! and I’m very sorry for you. You’re not worth twopence. Good-morning.]

_Our friend Jack McGilp to excited partner, who has just the head for his picture of “A Husband’s Revenge.”_--So she won’t stand any longer, won’t she? Of course she won’t. _I’ll get a model._

[_The effect is magical._]

What Miss Grundy saw in her brother-in-law’s studio.

_What Miss Grundy said about it to her sister._--“Perfectly disgraceful--and to crown it all she was bald!”]

YOUNG LADY. Ah! really, Mr. Splurge, I can’t think how you manage to paint with such taste.

MR. S. Simply by holding my palate in my hand, I assure you.]

MR. OCHRE (_through whose frame a thrill of horror is supposed to be passing_). Ugh! mind what you’re about, Charley. Mind my Ophelia; mind my Ophelia! You’ll knock her over, and spoil all her folds!]

Jack Armstrong has painted a modern subject, from real life, and painted it uncommonly well.--Strange to say, he has sold his picture.

Messrs. Feeble and Potter (_very high-art men, who can’t get on without mediæval costume, and all the rest of it_) think it a mistake.--Curiously enough, _their_ pictures are unsold.]

The above represents a slight mistake made by Scumble’s new charwoman, who, being “partial to her drops,” thought she had a chance.]

Fitzdab (_who does the Dundreary sort of thing_) having brought his whiskers to a pitch of perfection seldom equalled, gives the finishing touches to Dolly Jenkins’s portrait with the tips.]

STERN PARENT. Too fat for a page, you think, sir? Um! You see, sir, if so be you could wait a week or so, we could redooce him wery easy.]

ARTIST (_who does not seem to see it_). Lucky fellow!!]

STODGE (_in answer to the reproachful look of his cabman_). Well, it’s your right fare; you know that as well as I do!

CABBY. Oh! which I’m well aware o’ that, sir! But--(“_more in sorrow than in anger_”)--an’ you a artis’, sir!!

[_Gets another shilling!_]

At which (in consequence of the increased space anticipated at the R.A. exhibition) there is a greater crowd than usual.

MODEL (_who has charge of the hats and coats_). No. 97? Yessir. There now! If I didn’t see that ’at--ah--not a quarter of an hour ago!!

[_Not a very satisfactory look-out for Bouncefield, who has barely
time to catch his last train!_]

AND DECLAIMS THE POEM TO A PROSAIC PARTY.

OUR ARTIST (_ore rot._). “* * * * *

Charge by the golden lilies! upon them with the lance!
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,
A thousand knights are pressing close behind----”

PROSAIC PARTY (_interrupting_). Hullo!

OUR ARTIST. Eh?

PROSAIC PARTY. Why, hang it, that’s only one spur a-piece!]

_Enter Lord Blasonby (hastily) to sit for his portrait in Stodge’s picture of the Chalkshire hunt._

STODGE. I understood you to say you would come yesterday, my lord; and I am engaged this morning. Lady Flouncer is coming at one o’clock.

MY LORD. Haw! just in time, then. Cut away. You’ve got a good ten minutes. Wants a quarter to one, now!]

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

“They are in the stable.”

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

TAILOR (_to artist customer_). Looky ’ere, sir,--I’ll put it to you! you’re a drawer yourself, and if you knew the years I’ve been studyin’ the ’uman figger--you wouldn’t tell me that coat don’t fit!]

ARTIST (READING NOTE FROM OBLIGED FRIEND). Um,--um,--much obliged to you for the loan of your Bedouin’s dress--(um,--um,)--will return it in a day or two, as I’ve, (ah! what!) sent it--to--the WASH!!

[_The artist’s feelings (for colour
especially) may be easier imagined
than described._]

(In this engraving by George Cruikshank the figure of the artist is a portrait of Cruikshank himself.)]

* * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

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

“I give without counting,” he groaned.

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

ARTIST NO. 1. There, Master Oker, I flatter myself that will take the shine out of your precious production, although you do think nobody can paint but yourself.

ARTIST NO. 2. Hey! dear, dear, dear! That’s very bad. By jove, my boy, it’s a dreadful falling-off from last year. If I were you, I should think twice before I sent it in.

ARTIST NO. 1. Mere envy--illiberal humbug.]

* * * * *

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

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

FOND PARENT. I don’t care, Mr. Medium, about it’s being highly finished; but I should like the dear child’s expression preserved.]

* * * * *

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

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

“What! How so?”

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

* * * * *

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

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

FRAME-MAKER (_who comes to measure Stodge’s academy pictures_). Now, I think it’s a pity you don’t let me have some o’ these for my winder, since you have no idea of the amount of rubbish I can get rid of at times.]

* * * * *

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

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

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

CAUTION.--(To the two young ladies in pink bonnets who expressed such enthusiasm about Mr. B. Stubbs’s pictures, and would so like to see that “dear Mr. Stubbs.”) The tall young man who on overhearing the above praise, wetted his pocket-handkerchief, and removed an imaginary speck of dust from Mr. S.’s picture, thereby trying to convey the impression that he was the fortunate man who had painted it, is some impudent impostor, and never touched a canvas before in his life. Mr. B. Stubbs is a good-looking, _short_ man, with wideawake, auburn beard and spectacles.]

PAINTERS AND GAZERS

A SKETCH AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Fun_, 1863.

ENID (_with catalogue_). Aren’t they splendid?

EILEEN (_using picture as mirror_). Yes, I _must_ say I like these dark Rembrandts.]

“You were a silly ass to talk of Botticelli in that way just now. Why, it’s not a wine, it’s a cheese!”]

Honestly, now--which of the two ought to apologize to the other?]

* * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

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

PROVINCIAL (_at the Leeds Exhibition_). I’ve heeard as the paint on some o’ these yere “picters” comes to a matter o’ fi’ pounds sometimes, let alone the man’s time a layin’ of it on, yer know!!!]

Mr. B. A. Boone having given Smudger, R.H.A., leave to exhibit his portrait, is intensely delighted to find there is a slight mistake in the catalogue, and that the description really belonging to No. 82--“B. A. Boone, Esq., F.Z.S., etc.”--has been transferred to No. 28.]

* * * * *

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

ROSENSTEIN. The doctor ordered me to take a bath!

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

* * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

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

Or, what it would have come to, if some people had had their way.]

AN ENGLISH NOBLEMAN, 1848.

MILORD. Godam! Rosbif! I shall sell my wife at Smithfield. Dam!]

* * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

MCDAUBER (_who is so afflicted with the habit of thinking aloud_). Charming bit of colour, that! Marvellous chiaroscuro. Wonder who it’s by?

[_Oddly enough it is by McDauber himself!_]

STOUT FASHIONABLE PARTY. What guys they made of themselves in those days, aunt!

SLIM OLD DITTO. Fashion, my dear! I should not wonder but we shall be looked on as _perfect frights_ in future times!!]

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

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

* * * * *

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

“It happens frequently.”

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

* * * * *

“Hello, Jimson, whither so fast?”

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

OUR
HISTORICAL
PORTRAIT
GALLERY

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

Stodge and his friends, Madlake and Blumold, have learnt that their pictures are hung this year. So, here they are, looking out for some nice dressy ties for the opening of the Academy. Ah! it’s all very well to laugh, but personal appearance and “get-up” generally is a very important thing nowadays, mind you!]

FIRST ART-CRITIC. Not a bad bit of colour that--great hairial effect, too!

SECOND DITTO. Jolliest thing in the exhibition, by Jingo!

[_An explanation of the above is requested;--we cannot find Mr.
Jingo’s name in the catalogue._]

A DREAM OF UNFAIR WOMEN

BY CLEMENT W. SCOTT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Fun_, 1865.

1.--_Early Pie-ety._
2.--_The Mother’s Pet._
3.--_Rough Weather off the Coast of Devon._
4.--_A Shady Pool._
5.--_A Village Style._
6.--_The Mace-bearer._
7.--_Summer._
8.--_Spring._

A FEW SUGGESTIONS FOR THE ROYAL ACADEMY CATALOGUE. (1868.)]

“IT’S AN ILL WIND,” ETC.

Our artist takes advantage of the utter prostration of the poor sick passengers, and fills his sketch-book.]

IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS

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

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

_All._ Nay--speak--speak!

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

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

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

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

_Rubens._ Strange how blind we were on earth!

NATIVE (_to our Landscape Painter, who has come down to sketch_). Why, sir, in this ’ere valley that you’re a goin’ to, you may see--ah--three splendid viaducts all at once, and one o’ the largest cloth factories in the West of England!]

_A. Durer._ But the news from England?

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

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

THE POSSIBILITIES OF A PENNY PISTOL AND A BOX OF CAPS.]

MAULSTIC. Hullo, Jack, what _are_ you after?

JACK. Oh, my foreground didn’t come well, so I’m _putting it together_ a bit.]

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

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

MISS JONES (_loq._). So glad there are no horrid cows in the field this morning.]

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

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

The artist who gives up his time to drawing in albums is like a midshipman on half pay--gets “nothing a day and finds himself.”]

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

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

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

INGENUAS DIDICISSE FIDELITER ARTES, etc., etc.--NURSEMAID. The perspective of the _Chiaroscuro_ is divine, Augustus. But, oh! the _impasto_, is it not a _leetle_ too _pizzicato_?]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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