The Project Gutenberg eBook, Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98, February 1, 1890, by Various, Edited by Francis Burnand
Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98, February 1, 1890
Author: Various
Editor: Francis Burnand
Release Date: July 12, 2007 [eBook #22051]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI, VOL. 98, FEBRUARY 1, 1890***
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and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
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PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
VOL. 98
February 1, 1890
UNTILED; OR, THE MODERN ASMODEUS.
"Très volontiers," repartit le démon. "Vous aimez les tableaux changeans: je veux vous contenter."
Le Diable Boiteux.
XVIII.
Dubbed the fair dame. The title may not fit
With accurate completeness;
It soars some shades too high, this modish mot,
As 'Mrs. Lyon-Hunter' sinks too low;
Both nick-names fail in neatness.
Not oft is earned, in Fleet Street or Mayfair,
In these hot days of hurry.
Salons, Symposia, both have met their doom,
And wit, in the Victorian drawing-room,
Finds a fell foe in flurry."
That struck so coldly on the listening ear.
Soft was his speech, as muffled
By some chill atmosphere surcharged with snow,
In unemphatic accents, level, low,
Unhasting and unruffled.
In all her muster of superior minds,
Her host of instant heroes?
That's hard!" I said. "She does not greatly care,"
My guide rejoined. "Behold her seated there!
Her court's as full as Nero's.
Sententious sage. If she is bored by him,
The lady doth not show it.
But there's a furtive glancing of her eye
Toward the entry. There comes Marx M'Kay,
The Socialistic Poet.
To all his hostess cares for. Crude and rash,
But musically 'precious.'
His passionate philippics against Wealth
Mammon's own daughters read, 'tis said, by stealth,
And vote them 'quite delicious!'
Of worshippers who mob this Son of Song,
Money, Monopoly, Merriment,
He bans and blazes at in 'Diræ' dread;
But then they know his Muse is merely Red
In metrical experiment.
Finds life in theory only harsh and hard.
His chevelure looks shaggy,
But his black broad-cloth's glossy and well-brushed,
And he'd feel wretched if his tie were crushed,
His trousers slightly baggy.
The vampire-horde of Capital he'll curse,
And praise the Proletariat;
But having thus delivered his bard-soul,
He finds it, practically, nice to loll
With Dives in his chariot.
Those 'Molochs of the Mart' this Son of Light
Keeps his poetic eye on.
'Who takes a Singer au grand sérieux?'
Mrs. Mæcenas asks. So he's on view,
Her Season's latest lion.
Are right authentic Leos, she must boast
As potent charm as Circe's.
What is her wand? Is't wit, or wealth, or both?"
"Listen! That's Mumps the mimic, nothing loth,
Rolling out Vamper's verses!
Boredom's best friends are fellows who recite.
None like, not many listen,
But all must make believe to stand about
And watch a man gesticulate and shout,
With eyes that glare and glisten.
The man who mouths out Eugene Aram's Dream
In guttural tones and raucous.
All these have heard a hundred times before
Young Vox, the vain and ventriloquial bore
They'd fain despatch to Orcus.
To little Jinks, the jerky comic mime,
And his facetious chatter.
But ill would fare Town's guest if he refused
For the five hundredth time to be 'amused'
By gush, or cockney patter.
Compared with slangy laureates of the slum.
Hist! There's a tenor twitter,
A tremulous twangle of the minor strings.
'Tis Seraphin, sleek Amateur, who sings,
'Glide where the moonbeams glitter!'
Your love-lorn chants and woful wailings pour!'
Sang Horace to Hermogenes.
Seraphin's a Tigellius, and his style
Would bring the bland Venusian's scornful smile
The scowl of sour Diogenes.
To let such fribbles feel the critic steel
With scalpel-like severity?
Granted! But will no pangs the victims urge
To abate that plague of bores, which is the scourge
Of social insincerity?
The latest wanderer from the Tropic Waste,
Sun-bronzed and care-lined, saunters
In cheery chat with mild-faced Mirabel,
Who with Romance's wildest weirdest spell
Has witched your Mudie-haunters.
A dozen desert spearmen faced and stayed,
Stoops his high-shoulder'd stature
To hear the twittering tones of Tiny Tim,
A midget, but the soul of whit and whim,
The genius of good-nature.
Lord Mossmore talks with Violet de Vere,
The latest light of Fiction;
Steadily-rising statesman, season's star!
Calmly he hears, though Caste's keen instincts jar,
Her strained self-conscious diction.
At ruddy Rasper's keenly-whispered mot—
Rasper, a soul all strictures,
Holds the great world a field for sketchy chaff.
Many love not the man, but how they laugh
At his swift, scathing pictures!
With rival beauties holding separate courts,
Find here parade, employment.
And yet, and yet, they all look cross, or tired;
Your cultured city has not yet acquired
The art of true enjoyment.
But here, with wealth, and wit, and charm, and cheer,
All should go so delightfully.
Time gay as in the Golden Age should fleet,
But the most brilliant stars in Babylon meet,
And—bore each other frightfully."
(To be continued.)
IN THE NAME OF CHARITY—GO TO PRISON!
Last week Mr. Punch asked, "Oh, where, and oh where, is The Public Prosecutor?" and he has received an answer. It appears that the official has been recently engaged (his letter is dated the 30th of November) in suppressing an "illegal scheme" to aid the funds of the North-West London Hospital. It appears that, with a view to increasing the revenue of that most deserving charity, it was arranged to treat some presents that had been made to the Institution as "prizes," to be given to those who sent donations to the hospital. There was to be a "drawing," which was to be duly advertised in the daily papers. But this could not be tolerated. Sir A. K. Stephenson, Solicitor to Her Majesty's Treasury, after denouncing the scheme in the terms above set forth, informed the Secretary of the Hospital, "that all persons concerned therein subjected themselves to the penalties imposed by the Acts passed for the suppression of illegal lotteries." Well, the law is the law, and it would never do for Mr. Punch to dispute the point with so learned a gentleman as Sir A. K. Stephenson—the more especially as Sir A. K. S. has just been patented a Q.C.—but if the Public Prosecutor can stop "illegal schemes" for benefiting the sick, why can he not also deal with the professional perjurers, suborners of witnesses, and fabricators of false evidence? Mr. Punch pauses for a reply, but is disinclined to pause much longer!
Our Turn Now.—An excited paragraph in the morning papers announces that "two Doctors of Vienna have succeeded in discovering the Influenza bacillus after a series of experiments in the Chemical and Physiological Laboratory of the University." This is capital. Hitherto the Influenza bacillus has discovered us. Now the tables are turned, and the question is, What shall we do with our prize? A little transaction in boiling lead might not be bad to begin with.
AN OLD FABLE.
Frog. "I mean to be as Big as you, one Day, and Swallow you up. Bust if I don't!"
A "FISH OUT OF WATER" AT GREENWICH.
In a not very wise speech delivered while presiding at the opening of a new series of lectures in connection with the Greenwich Branch of the Society for the Extension of University Teaching, Lord Wolseley modestly admitted "that whatever information he had acquired in life had been acquired from the ordinary penny newspaper which he had read day by day." No doubt this rather humiliating fact accounts for the florid style of the proclamations "Our Only General" used to publish in Egypt and elsewhere—proclamations at the time recognised as having the tone of Astley's in the good old days of the Battle of Waterloo and other military melodramas. However, if it pleases Lord Wolseley to give materials for a future biography, that is no one's concern but his own. Unfortunately he touched upon another matter, about which he knows evidently very little, if anything at all. His Lordship spoke in very disrespectful terms of what he called the "Shilling Dreadful," which, he declared (in this instance accurately enough), was "prized by many people." Certainly the novelette is more popular than The Soldier's Pocket-book, although both brochures are equally works of imagination. So it should be, considering that amongst the authors who have produced it have been Wilkie Collins, Hugh Conway, F. Anstey, Robert Buchanan, Grant Allen, Walter Besant, Rhoda Broughton, and others equally well known to fame. He concluded by remarking, "that if men of all politics were to be shaken up in a bag, he believed there would be very little difference between them." Quite true, if the bag were shaken sufficiently long to complete the transformation—but it would be rather a brutal experiment!
REFRESHMENTS IN VOGUE.
"Quinine or Antipyrine, my Lady?"
A PAGE FROM A DIARY.
(Purely Imaginary.)
First Week.—Now let me see what I have to do. I will leave out of consideration my extra-parliamentary utterances—they will take care of themselves. Shan't forget them. But other matters. Well, I have to turn the works of my dear old friend Alf Tennyson into Greek—of course, omitting certain highly injudicious lines of a reactionary character. Then I must read through the last edition of the Encyclopædia Britannica. No skipping, but go through every article thoroughly and conscientiously. Then, of course, there is Grand Day at Gray's Inn. Must not forget that. Should like, above all things, to be present. Now let me see that I have got the date all right. Yes, I remember. Grand Day, Hilary Term. Falls on a Thursday. I shan't forget.
Second Week.—Translation of Tennyson into Greek going on famously. Not had time to cut down any trees, so busy have I been. Got as far as
Third Week.—A. T. progressing nicely. Little difficulty about the translation of the Northern Farmer. Rather awkward to give the proper weight of a country dialect in Greek. However, it reads very well, indeed! Think my dear old friend Alf will be pleased with it; he should be, as it has given me a good deal of trouble. However, all's well that ends well. E. B. also satisfactory. Got into the "D's." Article upon the "Docks," scarcely exhaustive enough to please me, so have been reading some other books upon the same subject. Forgotten nothing? No, because I remember I have to dine at Gray's Inn. Yes, to be sure—23rd of January. Grand Day. Hilary Term. Falls on a Thursday. Would not forget it to save my election! Looking forward to the port. Excellent port at Gray's Inn, I am told. Well, well, I shall be there! I don't believe much in artificial memory, but to assist my recollection, I have tied knots in all my pocket-handkerchiefs. Wouldn't forget the fixture for a kingdom. Falls on a Thursday.
Fourth Week.—Finished Greek translation of Tennyson's Poems. Very pleased with the result. Must send a copy to dear old Alf. Perhaps it might suggest to him that it would be a graceful compliment in return to translate all my speeches into Latin verse. Dear old friend! There is not another man to whom I would entrust such a task with equal heartiness. He would do it so well. Must look up my earlier orations. If Alf does any of it, he should do it all. I do not believe in half measures. Nearly finished the E. B. Article upon "Music" very interesting. "Pigs" not so good; however "Wheel-barrows" excellent and exhaustive. Rather angry to find knots in my handkerchiefs, &c., until I suddenly remembered they were to remind me of my engagement to dine at Gray's Inn. To be sure. Grand Day, Hilary Term. Falls on a Thursday. Sure to be a delightful evening. Several of my young Irish friends are members of the Society. I am looking forward to it so much. Useful things, knots. Remembered it at once! Tie them again. Also put grey wideawake hat over clock in my study. That will remind me of Gray's Inn. Falls on a Thursday!
Last Week.—There, now I can come to this book with a clear conscience. Done everything. Greek translation of Tennyson ready for press. Finished letter "Z" last night, in final volume of the Encyclopædia Britannica. Nothing omitted. Rather annoyed to find someone has been tying knots in my handkerchief. Hate practical jokes! Careless person, too, has been hanging my old grey wideawake on the clock in my study. Rather a liberty! Don't like liberties. Always courteous to everybody—consequently, expect everybody to be courteous to me! Still, can't help smiling. It was a quaint idea to hang my old wideawake on the clock in my study. I wonder what put such a freak into the joker's head! Now let me look at the paper that has just reached me from London. Dear me, "The Vacant Chair." That seems a good title. And all about Gray's Inn! Now, I like Gray's Inn—a most excellent place; everyone connected with it great friends of mine. And writing of Gray's Inn, that reminds me—Good gracious! Why, last night was Thursday, and I forgot to be there!!!
MENU-BETTING.
Gentlemen who bet on every event in life—who cut cards to decide whether they shall go into the City by cab or by underground train, and toss up to see whether they had better dine at home or at the Club, may be interested to know of a new game of chance which can be played at dinnertime, and in which ladies not only may but must take part. "Betting on the menu" it is called; and it is done in this way. You ask the lady next to you on the right—the one you have taken in to dinner—permission to speculate as to what dishes she will choose from among those inscribed on the menu; and you back your selection in a series of bets either with the lady herself, or—if she happens not to be what the French call "sportive"—with any gentleman who may be willing to do business with you. Suppose the lady takes you? You make a pencil-mark against each dish which, it seems to you, she will fancy; and if you are right more often than you are wrong, you win—and the lady does not pay you. In the contrary case you lose—and you pay the lady. It need scarcely be said that you annotate your own copy of the menu, and that the lady does not see it until the dinner is at an end. The same principle is observed in betting with a gentleman in reference to a lady's probable selection; but in this latter case neither of the parties interested is at liberty to express any opinion, directly or indirectly, as to the merits or demerits of the different dishes from which the lady has to choose. Any member of the unfair sex may make sure of winning from her antagonist—who will naturally have marked a certain number of dishes—by simply abstaining from food throughout the dinner; though the lady of the house might think this impolite. Menu-betting is in any case an agreeable pastime for both sexes. It promotes digestion; and any woman of moderate ability may make money by it.
"More Light!"—The British Museum is, it appears, presently to be opened at night, its (Elgin) marble halls and others being illuminated with the electric light. Concurrently with this happy event Mr. Louis Fagan, of the Departments of Prints and Drawings, announces a course of three popular lectures on the Treasures of the Museum, to be delivered next month at the Steinway Hall. No one knows more about the Museum than Mr. Fagan, and, with the assistance of 170 photographic reproductions, exhibited by oxyhydrogen light, he will teach the public a thing or two about its foundation, progress, and present contents.
PHENOMENAL.
Near-sighted Man in Church, inspecting Sham Insect on Lady's Bonnet. He is so excited by the discovery, that he hurries out of Church in the middle of the Service, in order to write to the Papers to announce the sudden appearance of a magnificent specimen of the large Tortoise-Shell Butterfly on our Shores in mid-January, as a proof of the Mildness of the Climate.
AMONG THE AMATEURS.
No. IV.—RETROSPECT.
Scene—A large Room, in which Guests are assembling previous to a Supper in honour of a Great Actor, who is about to leave for a tour to the United States. There has been a magnificent farewell performance, in which the Great Actor has surpassed himself. The public has shown unparalleled enthusiasm; the G. A. has appeared before the Curtain, and in a voice choked with emotion has assured his audience that the one thing that sustains him at this trying moment is the prospect of seeing them all again when he returns.
Time—11.45 P.M. The Room
The Secretary (to Boldero). So glad all you fellows have been able to come. I've put you pretty well together, as you wished. I wonder where—oh! here he is at last.
Enter Great Actor. The Secretary rushes to him. Hand-shakings and congratulations all round. The G. A. moves up the room to where the Amateurs are standing.
G. A. (shaking hands.) Ah! this is really friendly, Tiffington, really friendly. Were you in front to-night?
Tiffington. Of course we were. We wouldn't have missed it for a thousand pounds. It went first class. I thought your idea of stabbing Alphonso from behind instead of in front, was a genuine inspiration.
G. A. Approbation from Sir Hubert. (Bows and leaves quotation unfinished). But I've always played it like that, I think.
[Supper is announced. The Guests troop in to the supper-room.
Tiffington (to Jarp, as they walk in). He's wrong there. Never did it like that before; and, after all, I'm not sure it is such an improvement. But if you don't praise these fellows they never forgive you.
Jarp. Didn't he say anything about our show at Blankbury? I thought you wrote to him about it.
Tiffington. So I did; wrote specially to tell him how well things had gone off. But you might just as well try to pump wine out of a pillar-box, as expect a word of sympathy or encouragement from a professional. They're all the same.
[They take their seats, Tiffington and Jarp on one side of the table, the other three opposite them. The supper begins.
Friend of the G. A. (on Tiffington's right). Splendid performance, was it not? I never saw him in finer form in my life. It's quite impossible to imagine anything more dignified and pathetic than his death-scene.
Tiffington (dubiously). Hum! Yes. I'm not sure I should do it like that quite. What do you say, Gushby?
Gushby. It's not my idea at all. He spins it out far too long. I should like to see you act that, Tiff.
Tiffington (complacently). Ah, well, so you might if things were managed with common fairness. But (bitterly) you know well enough there's a regular conspiracy against me. (To Friend of G. A.) Now, of course, you've read the notices of our performance of Heads or Tails? Yes. I thought you had. Well, you must have observed, that I don't get more than two lines in any one of them, not a word more than two lines upon my soul, and yet any fool knows that my part was the chief one. But there you are. The beggars daren't abuse me. They know the public won't stand that, so, just to spite me, they try to leave me out. But they're very much mistaken if they think I care. Pooh! I snap my fingers at them and their wretched conspiracy.
[Snaps them, and drinks moodily. The supper proceeds. Conversation everywhere ranges over all kinds of topics,—literature, art, the drama, the political situation, the last Divorce Case. The Amateurs continue to discuss themselves.
Jarp (to Boldero). Did you see that infamous notice in The Moonbeam? Just like that rascal Penfold. He can't help showing his jealousy, because we never asked him to join the Perambulators.
Boldero. Yes. There you have it in a nutshell. I tell you what it is, we shall have to exclude all critics from our show in future.
Tiffington. Ah! that would punish them—and serve them right, too. Are you going to sing to-night, Hall?
Hall (with a sigh of resignation). I suppose I shall have to. I told Batterdown I should be ready, if wanted.
Jarp. Have you got anything new?
Hall. Rather. Something particularly neat, I think. I call it "The Super at Supper." It goes like this:—
[Hums to his friends, who listen with rapt attention, occasionally interchanging glances expressive of enthusiastic admiration.
Who quaffed champagne from a brimming bowl,
And all night long as he quaffed he sang,
"The Dukes may swing, and the Earls go hang,
And the Duchesses, 'drat 'em, may go and be blowed;
They've all been there, and they know the road—
They're slaves, but the Super who sups is free—
Oh! the Super's life is the life for me!
Chorus.
Oh! the supping Super's the man for me!"
Spinks, Boldero, Gushby, Jarp (with enthusiasm). My dear fellow, that's immense.
Hill. Yes, it's not bad. There are six verses, some of them even better than that.
[The Chairman rises to propose the only toast of the evening, "Success to the Great Actor who is about to leave us for a short time." The usual speech—reminiscent, anecdotic, prophetic of tremendous triumphs, mildly humorous, pathetic.
The Chairman (concluding). Therefore I bid you all charge your glasses as full of wine as your hearts are full of sympathy, and join me in wishing success to the Great Man, who is about to cull new laurels in a foreign land.
[Roars of applause. Immense enthusiasm. The Great Actor responds. He is moved to tears. He assures his friends, that wherever he may go his heart will ever turn fondly to them. Great cheering.
Tiffington (puffing his cigar). Not so bad. I always said he could speak better than he could act.
[The supper concludes. Hall has not been asked to sing.
Friend of Great Actor (departing, to Tiffington). It's been a splendid evening, hasn't it?
Tiffington (putting on his coat). Yes. Pretty fair. (To Hall.) Sorry for you, old chap. But the song will keep.
Hall. Keep? Oh, yes, it'll keep. I'll make it red-hot for the lot of 'em, and sing it at Blankbury next year. They won't like that, I rather think.
Jarp. No, by Gad!
[Exeunt omnes.
THE SHREWING OF THE TAME.
Dear Mr. Punch,
Mr. F. R. Benson
Believe me, yours truly,
One who is Easily Pleased.
HOW TO MEET IT.
Sir,—Having read all the letters that have appeared in the papers suggesting a treatment for the prevailing epidemic, I have got, perhaps, a little confused; but, on the whole, the following is the course, as far as I can make out, that it would be prudent to pursue on finding oneself threatened with any of the well-known symptoms. Immediately get into a warm bath several degrees hotter than you can possibly bear it, then get out again. Now go to bed, send for your family solicitor, and make your will, meantime trying every half hour half a tumbler or so of any patent medicine the advertisement of which occurs to you. Call in a homœopathic doctor, and give his system a turn for four-and-twenty hours; then send for your own medical man. Take care that they do not meet on the stairs. Take anything and everything he gives you for the next eight-and-forty hours, interspersing his prescriptions with frequent tumblers of hot and steaming ammoniated quinine-and-water, getting down at the same time more beef tea, oysters, champagne, muffins, mince-pies, oranges, nuts, and whiskey than, under ordinary circumstances, you feel would be good for you. Continue the above treatment for a couple of months. This is what I am going to try, if I am down with it. As I said above, it is, if a little complicated, sure to be all right, for I have got every item of it from a careful perusal of those infallible guides and directors in all modern difficulties and doubts,
The Daily Papers.
KICKED!
(By the Foot of Clara Groomley.)
Chapter II.
I am still at Ryde, and it is still raining. On a day like this, a little Ryde goes a great way. No Ryde without rain. Telle est la vie. The young girls at Plumfields sit writing themes indoors instead of taking their exercise in the open air.
If this rain keeps on, I shall go to wild Assam again, or to the Goodwin Sands. James, the headwaiter, has told me thirteen different stories of the haunted room of this hotel. None of them are amusing, or interesting, or have anything to do with this tale. If I were writing a shilling volume, I should put them in by way of padding. As it is, they may go out. I too will go out.
I have seen Mlle. Donnerwetter. She was racing along on the pier, and I was pacing along in the rear. I saw her and caught her up. I hastily pressed all the valuables that I had with me—four postage-stamps and an unserviceable watch-key—into her hand, and entreated her to give me an interview with Miss Smith.
"Me muchee want to oblige English Sahib," she said, in her pulverised English, "but ze Effendina—ze what you call 'ead-mistress, French lady like myself—she no like it. She give me the bottine, if I let great buckra massa talk to Fraulein Smeets. But lookee—I give you straight tip. Miss Smeets is on ze pier now—you write note—slip it in her hand. I wink ze eyebrow. I have a grand envy to oblige the English Signor. Ah! Bismillah! Quelle alouette!"
She is French, very French, but she has a kind heart. I hurriedly wrote a few impassioned words on my left cuff, and folded it into a three-cornered note. I dropped it down Miss Smeet's neck as I found her leaning over the side of the pier, and then ran away. I heard her murmur, "Someone's mistaken me for the post-office."
It is still raining, but I am quite happy. I have seen her again, and I feel that she loves me. It was impossible to mistake the tendresse with which she murmured, "post-office." In my little note I requested her to send a reply to this hotel. I have asked her to tell me plainly what her income is, and to state on what conditions she will forfeit it. Of course, she has no income now, as she is a minor, but I would wait a year or two for a certainty. Shall I write her some verses—lines to a minor, or thoughts on the Southampton quay? Perhaps I had better wait until I obtain the statistics. Ah, here is James, bringing me a note. It must be from my darling—no, it is from Mademoiselle.
Dear Sir,—Miss Smith am going away to Londres. A telegram come for her, and I look over the shoulder. It say, 'Poor Tommy's kicked! Come at once,' Miss Smith make the tears.
Yours,
Lucia Donnerwetter.
I must be off to London and get this matter traced. James entreats me to buy a new hat when I am away. He says it's bringing disgrace on the hotel, and keeping away custom. What! Give up the hat which her dear foot has kicked! Never! But, perhaps, I will have it ironed. The iron has entered into my soul, and perhaps, it would be doing more good on my hat. Yes, I will have it ironed. It does look a little limp. Ironed or starched—what matter, when my darling is gone, and left me with no information as to her income?
(To be concluded in Two more Chapters.)
"Venice Preserved" in The Haymarket.
No—not Otway's tragedy, and not under Mr. Beerbohm Tree's management, but at the Gallery next door to the Theatre, and under the superintendence of
Study for the Pelican Club.—The "Logic and Principles of Mill."
HAPPY THOUGHT.
Our Artist, finding he cannot exterminate the Street Musicians, and unwilling to be exterminated by them, has hit upon a Plan for Hardening himself—with the happiest results. Just One Week of the discipline represented above has made him absolutely Invulnerable—he thinks, for Life!
"BRITONS NEVER WILL BE SLAVES!"
(A Scene from a Domestic Comedy.)
Mrs. Bob Bull was the wife of a British Workman, and she got up at four o'clock in the morning.
"Must rise early," she said, "to see that my man has his breakfast."
So she lighted the fire, and put the kettle on to boil, and laid the cloth, and swept out the rooms. Then down came Bob rather in a bad humour, because he had been late over-night at the "Cock and Bottle," detained (as he explained to his wife) by a discussion about the rights of labour.
"Of course," said Mrs. Bull; "and why shouldn't you, after a hard day's work, enjoy yourself?"
But Bob contended that he had not enjoyed himself, although he had undoubtedly expended two shillings and eight-pence upon refreshment. What Bob wanted to know was, why there was a button off his coat, and why his waistcoat had not been properly mended.
"Well, I was busy with the children's things," replied Mrs. Bob; "but I will put all straight when you have gone to work."
"Gone to work, indeed!" grumbled Bob. "Yes, it's I that does all the work, and worse luck to it!"
The moment Bob was out of the house, Mrs. Bob got the children up and dressed them, and gave them their breakfasts and sent them off to school. When they were gone, she "tidied up" and dressed the baby. Then she did one of "the bits of washing," that came from a family in whose service she had been before she married Bob, and that family's connection. And this occupied her fully, what with soaking, and mangling and ironing, until it was time to carry Bob his dinner. In the pauses of her work she had been able to cook it, and it was quite ready to go with her when she was prepared to take it. It was a long walk (in the rain) to Bob's place of work, and it seemed the longer because she could not leave the baby. But both got there, and the dinner, without any accident. And then Mrs. Bob hurried back to give the children, now home from school, their midday meal. And Mrs. Bob had plenty of work to do afterwards. She had to mend, and to scrub, and to sweep, and to sew. She was not off her legs for a moment, and had she been a weaker woman, she would have been thoroughly done up. Then came the children's evening toilette and the cooking of Bob's supper. Her lord and master entered in due course, and she helped him off with his coat, and (when he had finished his food) lighted his pipe for him.
"Mended my clothes?" asked Bob.
"Of course I have."
"And washed my linen, and druv nails into my boots, and baked the bread, and pickled the walnuts, and all the rest of it?"
"Yes, Bob, I have done them all—every one of them."
This put Bob into a better temper, and he took out an evening paper, and began to read it.
"I say," said he; "what do you think! They have got white slaves in Turkey!"
"You don't say so, Bob!" replied Mrs. Bob, lost in amazement. Then she said as she paused tidying up the room, "Ah! they wouldn't allow anything of that sort in England!—would they, Bob?"
And Bob, smoking his pipe, and sprawling before the fire, agreed with her!
The Riviera in Bond Street.
Why take a long journey and spend a lot of money, when the Riviera is within a shilling cab-fare? Why not apply at 148, New Bond Street, and obtain one of the Fine Art Society's "excursion coupons," and get yourself personally conducted by Mr. John Fulleylove to Nice, Monte Carlo, Genoa, and all sorts of delightful places? Take Mr. Punch's advice, and go there at once! And, when you have exhausted the Riviera, you have another treat in a series of well-nigh seventy drawings of Cambridge. These are skilfully limned, with scrupulous architectural accuracy and charming pictorial effect, and will give great delight to Cantabrians, old and young. They are worthy to take their place beside the excellent series of pictures of Oxford which Mr. Fulleylove exhibited some time ago.