Giffen'sboys were this time, we may say without banter,Eleven too many for stout "Stoddart'sLot";We oft read of matches as "won in a canter,"But this one was won, it would seem, byA. Trott.
Giffen'sboys were this time, we may say without banter,Eleven too many for stout "Stoddart'sLot";We oft read of matches as "won in a canter,"But this one was won, it would seem, byA. Trott.
Giffen'sboys were this time, we may say without banter,
Eleven too many for stout "Stoddart'sLot";
We oft read of matches as "won in a canter,"
But this one was won, it would seem, byA. Trott.
AN APPLIED PROVERB.AN APPLIED PROVERB.Cabby."'Ere, I say! Only a Bob? Wot's this?"Footman."Why, you 'aven't drove the Young Lady across the Square!"Cabby."That may be. But if 'a Miss is as good as a Mile,' she's equal to Three Miles, and ought to pay more than double fare!"
Cabby."'Ere, I say! Only a Bob? Wot's this?"
Footman."Why, you 'aven't drove the Young Lady across the Square!"
Cabby."That may be. But if 'a Miss is as good as a Mile,' she's equal to Three Miles, and ought to pay more than double fare!"
Dearest Gladys,—I have been compiling a sort of dictionary for you, with a view to your second season. I send you a few selections from it—with notes of advice.
Art.A subject of discussion; mild at tea-time, often heated after dinner.
[Note.—Do not take sides. Mention thatWhistlerhas a picture in the Luxembourg, or say—with a smile or not, as the occasion may suggest—that SirFredericis the President of the Academy.]
Altruism.Boring some people about other people.
[Note.—Never encourageViews. They take up too much valuable time.]
Beauty.An expensive luxury.
Boy.If "dear," any effective man under forty. If "horrid," about twelve, and to be propitiated with nuts, knives and ships.
[Note.—Do not offend him.]
Blasphemy.Any discussion on religion.
[Note.—Look shocked, but not bored.]
Coquetry.A manner sometimes assumed by elderly ladies and very young gentlemen.
Cynicism.Truthfulness.
Duty.Referred to by relations who wish to be disagreeable.
[Note.—Change the subject.]
Divorce.The occasional result of friendship.
[Note.—But you must not know anything about it. Read only the leading articles.]
Eccentricity.Talent.
Etiquette.Provincialism.
Flirtation.Once a favourite amusement, now dying out; but still surviving at Clapham tennis-parties and Kensington subscription balls.
Foreigners.Often decorative; generally dangerous.
Friendship.The mutual dislike of people on intimate terms. Or, aeuphuismfor love.
Failure.An entertainment to which one has not been invited.
Goodness.The conduct of one's mother.
Hygiene.Never bothering about one's health.
Idiocy.The opinions of those who differ from one.
Justice.Enthusiastic praise of oneself.
Kleptomania.Stealing things one doesn't want.
Love.A subject not without interest.
Moonlight.Depends on the other person.
Marriage.The avowed and justifiable object in life of young girls. The avowed and justifiable terror of bachelors.
Nature.It has gone out of fashion, except in novels you must not say you have read.
Obviousness.To be guarded against.
Philosophy.An innocent amusement.
Palmistry.Only if he is really very nice.
Quarrel.A proof of love, or of detestation.
Quixotism.Defending the absent-minded.
Romance.Friendship in London.
[Note.—Do not be so absurdly credulous as to believe there is no such thing as Platonic affection. It is extremely prevalent; in fact, there is hardly anything else.]
Sincerity.Rudeness.
Toleration.Culture.
[Note.—You may as well begin to be tolerant at once, and save trouble. It is sure to come in time.]
Ugliness.Rather fashionable.
Untidiness.The picturesque way in which the other girl does her hair.
Vanity.Self-knowledge.
Wilfulness.A desire to give pleasure to others.
Youth.Appreciated in middle-age.
Zoological Gardens.Of course not. Nobody goes there now. Besides, you never know whom you may meet.
There,Gladys, dear! Write soon, and let me know when you are coming back to London. Sleeves are larger than ever, and chinchilla—— But I daresay you have heard.
Ever your affectionate friend,
Marjorie.
"My Old Dutch!"—See Exhibition of Old Masters' Works, Burlington House.
The way was long, the train was slow,As local trains are wont to go,A feeble ray of glimmering lightStrove vainly with the darkling night,And scarce enabled me to seeThe features of myvis-à-vis.Pale was his brow: no paler growThe snowdrops lurking in the snow;Hollow his cheeks, and sunk his eyesThat gazed on me in mournful wise.So strange a man I ne'er had seen,So wan a look, so weird a mien,And, as I eyed him, I confessA feeling of uncanninessCrept slowly over me and stoleInto the marrow of my soul.Awhile we sped, nor spake a word;Nought but the droning wheels was heard;But as we journeyed on together,By tentative degrees we fellFrom observations on the weatherTo talk of other things as well."I had a few hours off," said he;"So I just ran across to seeThe last inventions——I referTo Kensington Museum, Sir.You know it? What a grand display!A splendid exhibition, eh?I never saw so fine a showOf coffins anywhere, you know!And there is one that's simply sweet,With handles, knobs, and plate complete!""A coffin!"—Cold a shudder ranAdown me as I eyed the man."Aye, to be sure. What else?" he said."The one that's just been patented.Why, my good Sir, I will engageIt is the marvel of the age;For, mark you, they no longer useYour clumsy, antiquated screws,But just a simple catch and pinThat may be managedfrom within!"He ceased, for we had reached a stationThat chanced to be his destination."My home!" he murmured, with a sigh."Home—home! Sweet home!—Good-night!—Good-bye!""Good-night!" I answered; and my heartLeaped when I saw his form depart.But as we slowly glided pastThe spot where I had seen him last,Upon the station lamps, methought,The letters of a name I caught.I looked again.—My hair uprose,The very soul within me froze,For lo! upon the lamps was seenThe curdling legend—Kensal Green!
The way was long, the train was slow,As local trains are wont to go,A feeble ray of glimmering lightStrove vainly with the darkling night,And scarce enabled me to seeThe features of myvis-à-vis.Pale was his brow: no paler growThe snowdrops lurking in the snow;Hollow his cheeks, and sunk his eyesThat gazed on me in mournful wise.So strange a man I ne'er had seen,So wan a look, so weird a mien,And, as I eyed him, I confessA feeling of uncanninessCrept slowly over me and stoleInto the marrow of my soul.Awhile we sped, nor spake a word;Nought but the droning wheels was heard;But as we journeyed on together,By tentative degrees we fellFrom observations on the weatherTo talk of other things as well."I had a few hours off," said he;"So I just ran across to seeThe last inventions——I referTo Kensington Museum, Sir.You know it? What a grand display!A splendid exhibition, eh?I never saw so fine a showOf coffins anywhere, you know!And there is one that's simply sweet,With handles, knobs, and plate complete!""A coffin!"—Cold a shudder ranAdown me as I eyed the man."Aye, to be sure. What else?" he said."The one that's just been patented.Why, my good Sir, I will engageIt is the marvel of the age;For, mark you, they no longer useYour clumsy, antiquated screws,But just a simple catch and pinThat may be managedfrom within!"He ceased, for we had reached a stationThat chanced to be his destination."My home!" he murmured, with a sigh."Home—home! Sweet home!—Good-night!—Good-bye!""Good-night!" I answered; and my heartLeaped when I saw his form depart.But as we slowly glided pastThe spot where I had seen him last,Upon the station lamps, methought,The letters of a name I caught.I looked again.—My hair uprose,The very soul within me froze,For lo! upon the lamps was seenThe curdling legend—Kensal Green!
The way was long, the train was slow,
As local trains are wont to go,
A feeble ray of glimmering light
Strove vainly with the darkling night,
And scarce enabled me to see
The features of myvis-à-vis.
Pale was his brow: no paler grow
The snowdrops lurking in the snow;
Hollow his cheeks, and sunk his eyes
That gazed on me in mournful wise.
So strange a man I ne'er had seen,
So wan a look, so weird a mien,
And, as I eyed him, I confess
A feeling of uncanniness
Crept slowly over me and stole
Into the marrow of my soul.
Awhile we sped, nor spake a word;
Nought but the droning wheels was heard;
But as we journeyed on together,
By tentative degrees we fell
From observations on the weather
To talk of other things as well.
"I had a few hours off," said he;
"So I just ran across to see
The last inventions——I refer
To Kensington Museum, Sir.
You know it? What a grand display!
A splendid exhibition, eh?
I never saw so fine a show
Of coffins anywhere, you know!
And there is one that's simply sweet,
With handles, knobs, and plate complete!"
"A coffin!"—Cold a shudder ran
Adown me as I eyed the man.
"Aye, to be sure. What else?" he said.
"The one that's just been patented.
Why, my good Sir, I will engage
It is the marvel of the age;
For, mark you, they no longer use
Your clumsy, antiquated screws,
But just a simple catch and pin
That may be managedfrom within!"
He ceased, for we had reached a station
That chanced to be his destination.
"My home!" he murmured, with a sigh.
"Home—home! Sweet home!—Good-night!—Good-bye!"
"Good-night!" I answered; and my heart
Leaped when I saw his form depart.
But as we slowly glided past
The spot where I had seen him last,
Upon the station lamps, methought,
The letters of a name I caught.
I looked again.—My hair uprose,
The very soul within me froze,
For lo! upon the lamps was seen
The curdling legend—Kensal Green!
AT LITTLE PEDLINGTON.AT LITTLE PEDLINGTON.Jones."Do you useGas?"Village Operator."Yes, Sir. But I much preferDaylight!"
Jones."Do you useGas?"
Village Operator."Yes, Sir. But I much preferDaylight!"
Suggestions to the Niagara Real Ice Skating Hall Manager.—The floor is perfect for skating, but, as there are many who do not skate, why not have a "sliding roof"? and visitors to the latter not to be charged full price, but admitted on a sliding scale. Nice to see Mr.Edward Solomon, who, as conductor of the band, cuts a very pretty figure. Dangerous, though, to the real ice, to have "Sol" so close to it; that is, if there could be "melting moments."
The annual general meeting of the Amalgamated British Society for the Supply of Laureates to the public was held yesterday. There was a numerous attendance of authors and reviewers with a sprinkling of publishers. Mr.Grant Allenwas moved to the chair. The Chairman in presenting the report of the Directors regretted that he was unable to congratulate the Society on having accomplished the primary object of its existence, the filling up of the vacant laureateship. He himself, he said, had done his best. He had discovered a new sun in the firmament of poetry at least once a month, and had never hesitated to publish the name of his selection in one of the reviews. He was still willing to take seven to four about Mr.John Davidsonand Mr.Francis Thompson, Mr.William Watsonbarred. The balance-sheet of the Society did not show a very flourishing state of affairs. As assets they could enter fifteen sonnets, twelve irregularly rhymed odes (one by Mr.Richard le Gallienne), twenty-four volumes of a strictly limited edition issued from the Bodley Head, four tons of the Yellow Book, and an unpublished selection of manuscript poems written by a victim todelirium tremenswhose name he was not at liberty to mention. On the other side, however, they had to face the fact that their expenses had been heavy. It was becoming more and more costly and difficult to feed the public on geniuses, and he was inclined to advise the discontinuance of this branch of the Society's operations.
At this point some commotion was caused by Mr.Le Gallienneand Mr.Arthur Waugh, who rose simultaneously to protest against the Chairman's remarks. Mr.Le Galliennewas so far carried away by his agitation as to hurl a pamphlet at Mr.Grant Allen'shead. In the uproar which ensued, Mr.Le Galliennecould be heard ejaculating "beautiful phrases," "richly-coloured musical sentences," "ideal and transcendental," "nothing finer sinceLamb," "all for eighteenpence," and "a genius who sleeps below the wood-pigeons." The pamphlet thus discharged proved to be by a Mr.John Eglinton, and Mr.Le Galliennewas removed in the custody of a police-inspector, who was described by Mr.Waughas a Philistine.
When calm had been restored, Mr.Alfred Austinasked where he came in. He had never allowed a birth, a wedding, or a death in the upper circles of Royalty to pass unsung; and though he had been a constant subscriber to the Society it didn't seem to have done him any good. Besides, he had discovered Ireland last year. Mr.Lewis Morrisand Mr.Eric Mackaymade similar complaints. The latter offered to write patriotic poems with plenty of rhymes in them against any other living man. Would the meeting allow him to recite——?
At this point the Chairman interposed, and said that the Directors had decided against recitations—a statement which provoked loud murmurs of dissatisfaction. Eventually, Mr.Le Gallienne(who had returned, disguised in proof-sheets), proposed a vote of thanks to Mr.John Davidson, who proposed a vote of thanks to Mr.Grant Allen, who proposed a vote of thanks to Mr.Francis Thompson, who proposed a vote of thanks to Mr.Arthur Waugh, who proposed a vote of thanks to Mr.John Lane, who proposed a vote of thanks to Mr.Le Gallienne. All these having been unanimously passed, the meeting broke up.
QUEER QUERIES.—War of Words.—À proposof Mr.Plowden'sdecision in the "Flannelette case," can that worthy magistrate have foreseen some of its effects? For instance, wanting to buy a sideboard, I went to a furniture-dealer's, and saw one, apparently made of the best mahogany, which took my fancy greatly. I casually asked of what wood it was composed and was astonished to have the answer given me, "Mahoganette," by the shop-walker. So I walked out of the shop. When Iwantpainted deal I can inquire for that article. Again, I have noticed during the last few days a great falling-off in my butter (though not in its price). On my remonstrating, the seller frankly admitted that the article was "butterette," not butter. "What does 'ette' mean?" I asked him. He said it meant "little," adding, with a wink, that I should find "precious little butter, too." And this was the case. Whatarewe coming to?—Indignant.
OysterBars."—The prohibitive price of natives and the typhoid scare.
ANIMAL SPIRITS.ANIMAL SPIRITS.No. I—Football."The Zambesi Scorchers."
No. I—Football."The Zambesi Scorchers."
The anonymous author of"Spot," an Autobiography(Houlston and Sons, Paternoster Square), whoever he may be, has a remarkable insight into dog-nature, so far, that is, as one who is not a dog, but a mere lover of dogs, can judge.Spottells his own story in a straightforward, honest, doggy style, which must commend him at once to the hearts of his readers. His reflections, from the canine point of view, are admirably just. He never cared for flowers. "How vapid," he says, "is the scent of a rose, for instance, compared with that of an old seasoned bone." The force of the remark must be appreciated by anyone who has watched a dog exhuming with furtive labour a bone he had buried a week before. A firm foe to cats, he yet makes an exception in favour of his house-cat, as all civilised cat-destroying dogs do. The bull-dog's greeting to him is, in itself, a revelation of character. "Cheer up, youngster! Any good smells hereabouts?" says that redoubtable animal; whereupon they saunter together round by the back of the house, "passing few smells of any importance until we arrived at the ashpit." But I cannot here quote at greater length from his wise remarks. I can honestly advise all lovers of dogs (boys especially) to read this wholesome, pleasant, clever little book.
The Baron de Book-Worms.
Slight Improvement.—France has "come to the Faure." That's good to begin with, From a Republican to a "Bourgeois" Ministry is not much of a step, but still it is a step, Faure-wards, or rather upwards, as a conscientious, self-respecting Bourgeois can never be an anarchist.Louis Philippewas a "bourgeois king," and, after him, France "went Nap" and returned to Imperialism. But where's the Imperialist ruler now? Is the latest betting Faure to one on the Republic?
We'd done the latest picture-shows,Had honoured some with our approval,Expressed a cultured scorn for thoseThat merited a prompt removal.And then, to pass the time away,Disliking melodramas tragic,We chanced to go—oh, hapless day!—To see some "feats of modern magic."I don't deny the tricks were good,Nor could you easily see through them,And few of those who "understoodExactly how they're done," could do them.But when the wizard said he'd tryTo pass a watch to any distance,And find it in the audience—whyDid I afford him my assistance?I thought to spoil the trick he'd planned,Nor did I even feel embitteredWhen made before the crowd to stand,Although my fair companions tittered,But then the scoundrel in their viewRemarked, "Is this your usual habit?"And from my pocket calmly drewThe watch—suspended from a rabbit!The foolish people laughed and cheered,And as I fled in hasty fashion,My cousins even gaily jeeredInstead of showing me compassion!I'd grant them almost any boon,But though they ask it, never that formWill grace, as on this afternoon,A vulgar necromancer's platform!
We'd done the latest picture-shows,Had honoured some with our approval,Expressed a cultured scorn for thoseThat merited a prompt removal.And then, to pass the time away,Disliking melodramas tragic,We chanced to go—oh, hapless day!—To see some "feats of modern magic."
We'd done the latest picture-shows,
Had honoured some with our approval,
Expressed a cultured scorn for those
That merited a prompt removal.
And then, to pass the time away,
Disliking melodramas tragic,
We chanced to go—oh, hapless day!—
To see some "feats of modern magic."
I don't deny the tricks were good,Nor could you easily see through them,And few of those who "understoodExactly how they're done," could do them.But when the wizard said he'd tryTo pass a watch to any distance,And find it in the audience—whyDid I afford him my assistance?
I don't deny the tricks were good,
Nor could you easily see through them,
And few of those who "understood
Exactly how they're done," could do them.
But when the wizard said he'd try
To pass a watch to any distance,
And find it in the audience—why
Did I afford him my assistance?
I thought to spoil the trick he'd planned,Nor did I even feel embitteredWhen made before the crowd to stand,Although my fair companions tittered,But then the scoundrel in their viewRemarked, "Is this your usual habit?"And from my pocket calmly drewThe watch—suspended from a rabbit!
I thought to spoil the trick he'd planned,
Nor did I even feel embittered
When made before the crowd to stand,
Although my fair companions tittered,
But then the scoundrel in their view
Remarked, "Is this your usual habit?"
And from my pocket calmly drew
The watch—suspended from a rabbit!
The foolish people laughed and cheered,And as I fled in hasty fashion,My cousins even gaily jeeredInstead of showing me compassion!I'd grant them almost any boon,But though they ask it, never that formWill grace, as on this afternoon,A vulgar necromancer's platform!
The foolish people laughed and cheered,
And as I fled in hasty fashion,
My cousins even gaily jeered
Instead of showing me compassion!
I'd grant them almost any boon,
But though they ask it, never that form
Will grace, as on this afternoon,
A vulgar necromancer's platform!
Rumour.—As ruler of the domain where stands our great theatre and our opera house, SirDruiolanus, it is reported, is to receive the special distinction of K.C.G., which, in his case, is the Knight of Covent Garden.Bene meruit.
The Dramatic Arthurs Society is having a nice time of it just now withArthur Pinero,Arthur Jones,Arthur Law,Arthur Roberts,King Arthur, at the Lyceum, andArthur à Becketat the Garrick Theatre, whereFaded Flowers, revived, are once again blooming. It is a pretty piece, well played by Mr.Arthur Bourchier—encore un Arthur—and Mrs.Bourchier, known to the public as MissViolet Vanbrugh. A littleTerryboy, aged nine, is in it, and Mr.Buistdoes his very Buist, or best. The occasion of the revival was the resuscitation ofA Pair of Spectacles, in which Mr.John Hareis better than ever; and, indeed, he has made it one of his very best eccentric comedy parts. Again Mr.Grovesdelights us with his hardwareish impersonation of "the man from Sheffield," a very happy thought on the part of the author-adapter, Mr.Grundy.
The occasion of the revival, too, was also noteworthy as being thedébutof another of theTerryfamily, theingénueof the comedy being played by MissMabel Terry Lewis, who certainly inherits no small share of theTerryTalent. Mr.Gerald du Maurier, too, is excellent in a marvellously made-up small character part; andBertie Hare—the heir ofHare—is very good as the youngster. Mr.Harehas fitted on this "pair of spectacles" just in time; not to have done so would have been shortsighted policy; and through them no doubt he sees his way to a long and highly satisfactory run. These two revivals Mr.Haremay consider not as "a pair of specs," but as "a couple of certainties."
Peter Prosit.
Why is the Modern Fictionist like a Dog-Fancier?—Because he is so fond of short tails.
Transcriber's NotePage 46:Friendship.The mutual dislike of people on intimate terms. Or, a euphuism for love.The letter writer ('Marjorie') would appear to have confused 'euphuism' and 'euphemism', perhaps tongue-in-cheek deliberately on the part of the contributer?
Page 46:Friendship.The mutual dislike of people on intimate terms. Or, a euphuism for love.
The letter writer ('Marjorie') would appear to have confused 'euphuism' and 'euphemism', perhaps tongue-in-cheek deliberately on the part of the contributer?