Chapter VI: Act IV (3)

ARTIST (_entering_). My good woman, if you’ll allow me, I’ll just paint that bedstead of yours.

COTTAGER (_with bob-curtsey_). Thank ye, sir, I’ sure it’s very kind of ye--but dinna ye think the wee yin wants it more?]

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miss Raphael makes a study for her grand picture, “The Day after the Deluge.”]

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

_All._ Cleaned!

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

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

_All._ Shame and horror!

SECOND ARTIST. No; how much, my dear fellow; how much?

FIRST ARTIST. Why, very nearly a pound, I heard!

OMNES (_delighted_). Hurrah!]

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

FIRST SMALL BOY. I say, Bill, what’s he a doing of?

SECOND DITTO. Can’t you see he’s a-taking that old gent’s picture, and _isn’t_ it like him?]

“O! look’ee ’ere, Jane, ’ere’s one of them hacrobats a-goin’ to do the ladder-trick!”]

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

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

_Titian._ _Oimè_ for Venice.

_Rafael._ Oh Roma, Roma!

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

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

_Punch_, 1847.

PAPA. There, Henry! If you could do like that, I’d have you _taught drawing_, my boy!]

RURAL CONNOISSEUR. He’s a p’intin’ two pictur’s at once, d’yer see? ’Blest if I don’t like that there little ’un as he’s got his thumb through, the best!]

SHIP-PAINTER. Nice dryin’ weather for our business, ain’t it, sir?

AMATEUR (_disconcerted_). Ya-a-s!

[_Takes a dislike to the place_]

To artists who have big pictures returned on their hands:--“If you can’t live _by_ them, live _under_ them!”]

FIRST ARTIST. Who’ll be the next Academician?

SECOND ARTIST. Oh, Faddler, my dear fellow, unquestionably!

FIRST ARTIST (_incredulous_). Nonsense!

SECOND ARTIST. Oh, there’s no doubt about it! A very good fellow, you know, and he’s lived a long time at St. John’s Wood!]

FADSBY (_in agony; he’s a martyr to the decorative art of the nineteenth century_). Oh! Mrs. Grabbit--I really must--implore you--to remove those chimney ornam--ugh!--those two--fictile abominations--from this room while I remain he-ar!

[_Of all the artis’s, Mrs. Grabbit said, as she’d ever let
her apartments to, he was the most partic’lar._]

STUMPY ARTIST (_to friend with a Government appointment and lots of time_). Come and see my picture; can’t you come in the daytime early? And look ’ere: do you know a tall, handsome, gentlemanly-looking fellow, with a light beard and moustache, who would sit to me for my Hungarian Chief?]

FIRST ART CRITIC. I do b’lieve he’s a-painting the sky.

SECOND DITTO. Noa, he ain’t. He’s a-painting them people.

THIRD DITTO. Noa, he’s a-doing sommut out of his head.]

FIRST RUSTIC. ’Str’or’nary way o’ gettin’ yer livin’! Ain’t it, Joe?

SECOND DITTO. Aye, that ’t be, William. _Cripples_ o’ some sort, most on ’em, you may depend!]

Sketching on the Cornish coast, he has taken precautions against slipping over the rocks. Our artist is seen, from below, by the learned German Professor Longbauer, who, after he made the most of it in his _Travels_, described this incident as an instance of the cruel treatment of their political prisoners by the English Government!]

MAHLSTYCK (_who has been at it all day for a week making a pre-Raphaelite study of seashore_). I say, some of you fellows in the gunboat yesterday very nearly hit me once or twice!

JACK TAR. Lor, was that you sittin’ here yesterday, sir? Why, you was so still we thought you was a bush or summut--we was _practisin’ at you_!]

1ST ART STUDENT. Fine sunset that, Jack, but fancy I’ve seen it before.

2ND DITTO. Of course; decided crib from Turner. Saw it at a glance!]

WAITER. Yes, sir. We had a gentleman here, only last week, as took a sketch of that very ’ill, sir.

ARTIST (_abstractedly_). Oh, indeed! Was he an artist?

WAITER (_indignantly_). Oh, no! sir--a perfect gentleman.]

IS NOT IN THE BEST OF TEMPERS. HE HAS BEEN DISTURBED OFTEN BY BARGES, AND BOTHERED BY THE BLUEBOTTLES, AND THEN HE’S ACCOSTED BY WHAT APPEARS TO HIM IN THIS IRRITABLE MOOD TO BE AN

ART-CRITIC (_loq._). The picture looks better a goodish bit off, gov’nour!

ARTIST (_maddened_). Con-found--So do you, sir!

[_Party makes off hastily, “not liking the looks of him.”_]

“Well, there’s one thing: ’e’s well _broke_!”]

CHORUS. Look at her big foot! Oh, what a waist!--and what a ridiculous little head!--and _no_ chignon! She’s no lady! Oh, what a fright! (Period 1869.)]

PYRAMUS AND THISBE

A TRAGIC BALLAD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

URBANE FOREIGNER. The--ah--contemplation of these--ah--relics of ancient art in the galleries of Europe, must be most int’r’sting to the--ah--educated American!

AMERICAN TOURIST. Wa’al, don’t seem to care much for these _stone gals_, somehow, stranger!]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Punch_, 1844.

SARAH JANE. Lawks! Why it’s hexact like our Hemmer!]

GUIDE. That heffigy of them two halabaster habbots in ’elmets hare from a tomb in the Habby of St. Holive’s, founded by ’Enery the fust Tooder, fort’n ’undred ’n heighty-seven. Their mortal remains was haxumed by horder hof the R’yal Hantiquarian Serciety seventin heighty-three; their bodies was found himbammed, and henwelluped in jules!

[_Procession moves on._]

“MOTHER” (_at South Kensington_). Executed in ---- Tut-t-t-t! Lauk a mussy, ’Liza! what did them foreigners want to ’ang that poor innocent-lookin’ young creetur’ for!!?]

* * * * *

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

Jones prepares a little surprise for his Mary Ann, and has his equestrian portrait taken. He remarks, “’Ang it, you know, if I do have my carte done, I don’t see why I shouldn’t ’ave my ’orse!”]

Humours of
Photography.

PHOTOGRAPHER’S TOUT. ’Ave yer photograph took, my lord?

WAG. No, we’re too ugly.

PHOTOGRAPHER’S TOUT. Many a true word spoke in jest, mates.]

PHOTOGRAPHIC FAILURES

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

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

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

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

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

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

By a Friend of the Family.]

The Valuable Result.]

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

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

_Punch_, 1847.

Ingenious Jones sits for his portrait to a peripatetic photographer, and cunningly places himself exactly between the apparatus and the unconscious Oriana, whom he worships at a respectful distance, and whose likeness he would fain possess.

[_On this page the reader will
find, all framed and glazed, for
3s. 6d. complete, Ingenious
Jones’s Happy Thought’s result._]

PHOTOGRAPHER (_to Mr. Simpkins_). Keep your head steady, please, sir, and look in the direction of those young ladies. Steady now, sir! Don’t wink, sir!

MRS. S. (_by a look that Mr. S. quite understood_). Just let me see him wink!!]

OLD GIRL. Oh, I’ve brought back these cartes of mine, Mr. Kammerer. My friends are very dissatisfied. They----

PHOTOGRAPHER. Dear me, mum, I’m extremely sorry; I thought the portrait very----

OLD GIRL. Oh! impossible; it’s hideous!]

GEORGINA (_in riding habit_). Well dear! I declare it’s the very image of you! I _never_!

SARAH JANE (_who insists upon seeing the plate_). Like me? for goodness’ sake don’t be ridiculous, Georgina. I think it’s perfectly absurd! Why, it has given me a stupid little turn-up nose, and a mouth that’s absolutely enormous!]

_A Stereoscopic Scene from Fashionable Life in 1857._

“_Love, Pride, Revenge._” The group represents a young minstrel of humble origin, declaring his passion to a lady of noble parentage. Her haughty brother, as may be seen from his menacing attitude, is about to avenge the insult offered to his family!]

THE PHOTOGRAPHS

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

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

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

“Yes, Tommy.”

“What for?”]

Who has just succeeded in focussing a view to his complete satisfaction.]

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

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

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

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

“Oh!”

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

Sue was so mad she boxed my ears.

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

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

OLD LADY (_who is not used to these new-fangled notions_). Oh, sir! please, sir! don’t, sir! Don’t for goodness’ sake fire; sir!]

I laid low--but beware to-morrow!

They let me come down to breakfast this mornin’.

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

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

“Oh, things,” sez I, an’ she laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who did that, you little rascal!”

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

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

“Hello, Peters!”

He said:

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

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

“I do declare it looks like you.”

“Let me see it,” sez he.

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

FIRST CURLED AND POWDERED DARLING (_to photographer_). You’d better take pains with these ’ere _carte de visites_, as they’ll be a good deal shown about.

SECOND CURLED AND POWDERED DARLING (_on the sofa_). Yes--pertiklerly in the hupper suckles. Get you customers, you know.]

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

“Clear out,” sez Peters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dodge of little Sperks, showing how parties below the middle height, by the use of miniature background furniture, may gain a more imposing stature in the _carte de visite_.]

PHOTOGRAPHER. Now, sir! ’ave yer cart de visit done?]

“I say, mister, here’s me and my mate wants our fotergruffs took; and mind, we wants ’em ’ansom, cos they’re to give to two ladies.”]

_WANDERING MINSTRELS_

MRS. BROWN AND THE GERMAN BAND

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

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

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

How would it be if they changed instruments?]

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

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

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

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

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

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

NEW CHAMBER OF HORRORS AT MADAME TUSSAUD’S. (_The right man in the right place._) Don’t be afraid, you little goose! it’s only wax-work! Why, _I_ recollect when people like that were allowed to go loose about the streets!]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Fun_, 1868.

STREET MUSICIANS

By OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE OPERA.

BOX-KEEPER. Stalls 216 and 217. This way, ma’am; last row, ma’am.

Won’t you like a book, ma’am?]

THE BOHEMIAN GIRL

ADAPTED TO THE MEANEST CAPACITY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Punch_, 1844.

“TURNED OUT”

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

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

DOOR-KEEPER. Beg your pardon, sir--but you must, indeed, sir, be in full dress!

SNOB (_excited_). Full dress!! Why, what do yer call this?]

MATRON IN STALLS (_reads from programme_). “Overture to L’Ongfong Prod-eeg.” What does that mean? The prodigious child, eh?

ACCOMPLISHED DAUGHTER (_shocked_). Mamma, dear! No--“L’Enfant Prodigue”--it means the infant prodigy!!]

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE OPERA

BY W. M. THACKERAY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Punch_, 1843.

Sailors sing at their work. Why don’t clerks, lawyers, doctors, brokers, and shopkeepers? It would add to the variety of life.]

A WOMAN’S THOUGHTS ABOUT WOMEN

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

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

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

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

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

_Fun_, 1865.

JONES (_thinking otherwise_). Twenty-two what--stone?]

HIGH ART BELOW STAIRS.--COOK. Sh--sh--! _Moderato_, Susan! _Affettuoso_, Jim! _Ben marcato il basso_, Mr. Raffles! _Bravi tutti! Da capo!_]

OLD GENTLEMAN. How charmingly that young lady sings! Pray, who composed the beautiful song she has just favoured us with?

LADY OF THE HOUSE. Oh, it is by Mendelssohn.

OLD GENTLEMAN. Ah! One of his famous “Songs without Words,” I suppose.

(MORAL.--_Young ladies, when you sing, pronounce your words carefully,
and then you will not expose unmusical old gentlemen to making such a
ridiculous mistake as the above._)]

THE ONION GIRL

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