Volume 99 — OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
Reading edition
Who remembers a certain story called, if I remember aright, The Wheelbarrow of Bordeaux, that appeared in a Christmas Number of the Illustrated London News some years ago? If no one else does, I do, says the Baron; and that sensational story was a sensational sell, wherein the agony was piled up to the "nth," and just as the secret was about to be disclosed, the only person who knew it, and was on the point of revealing it, died. This is the sort of thing that Mr. RUDYARD KIPLING has just done in this month's Lippincott's Magazine. It is told in a plain, rough and ready, blunt style, but so blunt that there's no point in it. And the idea,—that is if the idea be that the likeness of the assassin remains on the retina of the victim's eye, and can be reproduced by photography,—is not a novelty. Perhaps this story in Lippincott comes out of one of Mr. RUDYARD KIPLING'S pigeon-holes, and was just chucked in haphazard, because Editorial Lippincott wanted something with the name of the KIPLING, "bright and merry," to it. It's not very "bright," and it certainly isn't "merry."
Black's Guide to Kent for 1890, useful in many respects, but not quite up to date. The Baron cannot find any information about the splendid Golf Grounds, nor the Golf Club at Sandwich; it speaks of Sir MOSES MONTEFIORE'S place on the East Cliff of Ramsgate as if that benevolent centenarian were still alive; and it retains an old-fashioned description of Ramsgate as "The favorite resort of superior London tradesmen"—"which," says the Baron, "is, to my certain knowledge, very far from being the case." It talks of the "humours of the sands," and alludes to what is merely the cheap-trippers' season, as if this could possibly be the best time for Ramsgate. The Guide knows nothing, or at least says nothing, of the Winter attractions; of the excellent pack of harriers; of the delightful climate from mid-September to January; of the southern aspect; of the pure air; of the many excursions to Ash, Deal, Sandwich, Ickham, and so forth; nor can the Baron discover any mention of the Granville Hotel, nor of the Albion Club, nor of the sport for fishers and shooters; nor of the Riviera-like mornings in November and in the early Spring, which are the real attractions of Ramsgate, and make it one of the finest health-resorts in Winter for all "who love life, and would see good days." "It reminds me," says the Baron, puffing off his smoke indignantly, "of Mr. IRVING and a certain youthful critic, who, in his presence at supper, had been running down Macbeth, finding fault with the Lyceum production of it, and ridiculing SHAKSPEARE for having written it. When he had quite finished HENRY IRVING, 'laying low' in his chair at the table, adjusted his pince-nez, and, looking straight at the clever young gentleman, asked, in the mildest possible tone, 'My dear Sir, have you ever read Macbeth?' So," resumes the Baron, "I am inclined to ask Mr. BLACK'S young man, 'Do you know Ramsgate?' And of course I mean the Ramsgate of 1890."
From the specimens of London City that have been sent for inspection by Messrs. FIELD & TUER, of the Leadenhall Press, who are bringing it out, the Baron augurs a grand result, artistically and financially. It is to be published at forty-two shillings, but subscribers will get it for a guinea, so intending possessors had evidently better become subscribers. The history of the Great City is to be told by Mr. W.J. LOFTIE, so that it starts with an elevated tone and the loftiest principles, and the illustrations will be by Mr. WM. LUKER, a talented draughtsman who, as a Luker-on has seen most of the games in the City. In consequence of some piratical publisher having attempted to bring out a work under the same title, intended to deceive even the elect, Messrs. FIELD & TUER have secured the copyright of the title London City, by the ingenious device of publishing, for one farthing each, five hundred copies of a miniature pamphlet bearing this title, and containing the explanation. The value of these eccentric farthing pamphlets may one day be thousands of pounds. Mem.—Twopence would be well invested in purchasing four of them.
Salads and Sandwiches is an attractive title, specially at this season. The arrangement of the book is, like the salad, a little mixed. When, however, the knowing Baron finds that abomination known as salad dressing, or "salad mixing," which is sold at the grocer's, recommended by a writer who professes to teach salad-making, then he closes the book, and reads no more that day. This author, who is in his salad days, might bring out a book entitled How to Suck Eggs; or, Letters to my Grandmother. It is a suggestion worth considering, says
THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.
TO PYRRHA ON THE THAMES.
O Pyrrha! say what youth in "blazer" drest, Woos you on pleasant Thames these summer eves; For whom do you put on that dainty vest, That sky-blue ribbon and those gigot sleeves. "Simplex munditiis," as HORACE wrote, And yet, poor lad, he'll find that he is rash; To-morrow you'll adorn some other boat, And smile as kindly on another "mash." As for myself—I'm old, and look askance At flannels and flirtation; not for me Youth's idiotic rapture at a glance From maiden eyes: although it comes from thee.
IN THE KNOW.
(By Mr. Punch's Own Prophet.)
I am a modest man, as well as an honest one. Censure cannot move me by one hair's breadth from the narrow path of rectitude; praise cannot unduly puff me up. Had I been other than I am, this last week would have gone fatally near to ruining that timid and shrinking diffidence which (I say it without egotism) marks me off from the poisonous, pestilential, hydrocephalous, putty-faced, suet-brained reptiles who disgrace the profession to which I belong. All I wish now to do is to point out that I am the only prophet who indicated, without any beating about the bush, that Marvel would win the Stewards' Cup at Goodwood. My admirers have recognised the fact, and my private residence has been choked by an avalanche of congratulatory despatches, including two or three from some of the highest in the land. H.S.H., the Grand Duke of PFEIFENTOPF says:—"You have me with your writings much refreshed. I have the whole revenues of the Grand Duchy against one thousand flaschen of lager bier gebetted, and I have won him on your noble advice on Marvel. I make you Commander of the Honigthau Order." I merely cite this to show that my appreciators are not to one country confined—I mean, confined to one country.
What did I say last week, in speaking of the Stewards' Cup horses? By the well-known grammatical figure known as the hysteroproteron, I mentioned Marvel last, intending, of course, as even a buffalo-headed Bedlamite might have seen, that he should be first. And he was first. But to make assurance doubly sure, and to bring prophecy down to the intellectual level of a bat, I added, in speaking of the winner, that he "would certainly be a Marvel." I say no more. As the great Cardinal once observed to his chief of police, "Je te verrai soufflé d'abord," so I reply to those who wish me to reveal the secret of my success. Mr. J. knows it not, and no single member of the imbecile, anserous, asinine, cow-hocked, spavin-brained, venomous, hugger-mugger purveyors of puddling balderdash who follow him has the least conception of my glorious system. But I am willing to teach, though I have nothing to learn. For six halfpenny stamps those who desire to know, shall receive my pamphlet on "Book-making." Every applicant must send his photograph with his application, not necessarily for publication, but as a guarantee of good faith.
"SUR LE TAPIS."—It was a carpet that ostensibly parted an eminent firm of composer, author, and theatrical manager. W.S.G. didn't want D'OYLY CARPET—no, beg pardon, should have written D'OYLY CARTE to have carte blanche. [Pretty name this. Is there a BLANCHE CARTE? If not, "make it so."]—to do whatever he liked whenever he liked with the decorating and upholstering of the theatre. And recently another carpet, not in connection with the above firm, created a difficulty. What's a thousand-guinea carpet to a man who likes this sort of thing? Nothing. Yet as amici curiae, we would have thought that that Tottenham Road carpet might have been kept out of Court. Wasn't that a Blunder, MAPLE?
THE LOVE LETTER.—A STUDY OF INDISCRETION.
FROM NILE TO NEVA.
["And the Egyptians made the children of Israel to serve with rigour. And they made their lives bitter with hard bondage."—Exodus.
"The Russian Government, by the new edicts legalises persecution, and openly declares war against the Jews of the Empire."—Times.]
"Beware!" 'Tis a voice from the shades, from the dark of three thousand long years, But it falls like the red blade of RA, and should echo in Tyranny's ears With the terror of overhead thunder; from Nile to the Neva it thrills, And it speaks of the judgment of wrong, of the doom of imperious wills. When PENTAOUR sang of the PHARAOH, alone by Orontes, at bay, By the chariots compassed about of the foe who were fierce for the fray, He sang of the dauntless oppressor, of RAMESES, conquering king; But were there such voice by the Neva to-day, of what now should he sing? Of tyranny born out of time, of oppression belated and vain? Put up the old weapon, O despot, slack hand from the scourge and the chain; For the days of the PHARAOHS are done, and the laureates of tyranny mute, And the whistle of falchion and flail are not set to the chords of the lute. True, the Hebrew, who bowed to the lash of the Pyramid-builders, bows still, For a time, to the knout of the TSAR, to the Muscovite's merciless will; But four millions of Israel's children are not to be crushed in the path Of a TSAR, like the Hittites of old, when great RAMESES flamed in his wrath Alone through their numberless hosts. No, the days of the Titans of Wrong Are past, for the Truth is a torch, and the voice of the peoples is strong. Even PENTAOUR, the poet of Might, spake in pity that rings down the years Of the life of "the peasant that tills" of his terrible toil and his tears; Of the rats and the locusts that ravaged, and, worse, the tax-gathering horde Who tithed all his pitiful tilth with the aid of the stick and the cord; And the splendour of RAMESES pales in the text of the old Coptic Muse, And—one hears the mad rush of the wheels that the fierce Red Sea billow pursues! O Muscovite, blind in your wrath, with your heel on the Israelite's neck, And your hand on that baleful old blade, Persecution, 'twere wisdom to reck The PHARAOH'S calm warning. Beware! Lo, the Pyramids pierce the grey gloom Of a desert that is but a waste, by a river that is but a tomb, Yet the Hebrew abides and is strong. AMENEMAN is gone to the ghosts, He the prince of the Coptic police who so harried the Israelite hosts When their lives with hard-bondage were bitter. And now bitter bondage you'd try. Proscription, and exile, and stern deprivation. Beware, Sire! Put by That blade in its blood-rusted scabbard. The PHARAOHS, the CAESARS have found That it wounds him who wields it; and you, though your victim there, prone on the ground, Look helpless and hopeless, you also shall find Persecution a bane Which shall lead to a Red Sea of blood to o'erwhelm selfish Tyranny's train. "Beware!" Tis the shade of MENEPTHA that whispers the warning from far. Concerning that sword there's a lesson the PHARAOH may teach to the TSAR!
"REWARDS FOR GALLANTRY."—Among the numerous rewards mentioned in the Times of last Thursday, the magnificent gold watch, with monogram in diamonds, presented by the Royal Italian Opera Company to AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS at the close of the present exceptionally successful season, was not mentioned. Most appropriate present from the persons up to tune to one who is always up to time. The umble individual who writes this paragraph only wishes some company—Italian, French, no matter which—would present him with a golden and diamonded watch. "O my prophetic soul! My Uncle!!"
The Price of It.
GLADSTONE'S latest Benedicite Is bestowed on "free publicity." 'Tis the thing that we all strive at, Praise in speech, and hate—in private! Where are pride, reserve, simplicity? Fled for ever—from Publicity!
"MORE LIGHT!"—The Berners Hotel Co., with Mr. GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA as Chairman, should at once be advertised as "The G.A.S.-Berners Hotel Co.," and, of course, no electric lighting would be used. Mr. SIMS REEVES is also a Director of this Hotel Company. So it starts with a tenner.
Socialistic Military Novel. By JAMES ODD SUMMER. One Iron Soldier, and the Led Captain.
FROM THE NILE TO THE NEVA.
SHADE OF PHARAOH. "FORBEAR! THAT WEAPON ALWAYS WOUNDS THE HAND THAT WIELDS IT."