Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 108, February 9, 1895

'Tis an ill-wind which blows nobody good, And one man's meat another's poison is. What is disaster to one man or mood, Is to another mood or man "good biz." What to your dramatist means love's labour's lost, Your would-be skater craves--"a perfect frost!"

By the publication of The Play Actress (S. R. CROCKETT) Mr. FISHER UNWIN fully maintains the success attained by his Autonym Library. My Baronite is least attracted by the scenes which possibly pleased the author most--those in which he describes life in the purlieus of London theatres. Mr. CROCKETT is much more at home in Galloway, and with the people who sparsely populate it. The opening chapter, describing Sabbath day in the Kirk of the Hill is in his best style, as are others describing the Great Preacher's tender caring for his little grand-daughter. The Play Actress is just the sort of thing to buy at a bookstall on starting for a journey. It will be felt to be a matter of regret if the journey isn't quite long enough to finish it at a sitting.

In The Worst Woman in London ("and other stories," a subtitle craftily suppressed on the outside of the book by F. C. PHILIPS) the author gives us a number of capital detached stories of a most irritating abruptness. Almost every one of these stories is a novel thrown away; that is, every story is in itself the germ of what might have been a good novel. They are little more than "jottings for plottings." Yet, to be read with a pipe or small cigar, they just suffice to wile away time and obviate conversation. They are dedicated to Mr. WALTER HERRIES POLLOCK, who has on more than one occasion shown himself an adept at real good short stories--not merely as plots, but genuinely complete in themselves and full of humour--and from whom the Baron expects something more in the same line, or, rather, on the same lines.

The BARON DE B.-W.

We care not, PHYLLIS, my own, to-day, For walking in Kensington Park, To flirt in the old conventional way, And saunter home in the dark. Nay, pleasanter far it is to "scorch"-- To hear your silvery bell, While the answering squeak of my horn may speak For the fact that I love you well!

Both.

Oh, isn't it sweet to clear the street, While elderly persons frown! "Now, stoopid, look out!" we pleasantly shout, And bang goes a gentleman down!

Phyllis.

STREPHON, I love you, I confess, For who could fail to admire The humorous way you spoil a dress And ruin a girl's attire? To see you silently creep along, And then with a burst of speed Spread liberal dirt on the feminine skirt Is a sight for the gods, indeed!

Both.

Oh, isn't it glee to do it, and see The lady-pedestrian flinch, With jubilant rush to scatter the slush And miss her foot by an inch!

Strephon.

I frightened those horses, I'm much afraid,-- The excellent coachman's riled!

Phyllis.

And I've demolished a nursery-maid, And certainly hurt a child!

Strephon.

I made that stately dowager jump, She leapt to one side, and puffed!

Phyllis.

That leisurely cur, I'm inclined to infer, To-morrow will go to be stuffed!

Both.

So side by side we merrily ride, And scatter the murmuring throng, Who think the police should compel us to cease, And mournfully ask, "How long?"

JUST A LITTLE TOO MUCH.--When a parliamentary candidate or popular Member is received with a torchlight procession, it is almost unnecessary for his constituents to present him, on a dark night, with "an illuminated address."

MONSIEUR,--I write to you, M. Punch, these some words, which I essay to write in english. I come of to receive--how say you _la nouvelle?_--the new of the amnesty in France. The government which banished the descendant of the great NAPOLÉON has recalled some exileds. But he has not recalled me, ce gouvernement infâme! He has left to languish the heir of the crown imperial in this droll of little town. Nom d'une pipe, quelle ville! Rien qu'un Palais de Justice et quelques rues désertes! But I go to write in english. I rest here, at five hours of Paris, alldays ready, alldays vigilant. Mais que c'est triste! Tiens, it is not perhaps so sad as that--how write you the name?--that Stove, in your département of the Bukkinhammshir. At least one speak french in this country. It is not the french of Paris, or the french of Touraine, but all of same it values better than english--a language so difficult. Thus I rest here, I walk myself to horse in their Wood of Cambre, I visit of time in time the Palace of Justice and Ste. Gudule, et voilà c'est fini! Then I recommence and I see, encore une fois, the Bois, the Palais, and the Cathédrale. I go not to Waterloo, for people say my Great Ancestor there was conquered by your Duc of WELINTONG. One has wrong, the historians have wrong, mais enfin, que faire? I may not to write the history of new. A l'avenir nous verrons. En attendant j'attends. And I stand, like my Great Ancestor, the arms folded, and frown towards the frontier of the France, la patrie ingrate. It is a fine attitude, and I study it all the days.

Agréez, &c. N.

Stowe, the 31. January.

Sir,--I tell you my thoughts as calmly as possibly, but my heart burns! Heaven, what injustice! To France--ah, I say not her name without emotion!--to France I offered my sword, my service, my life! She refused them! Ingrateful country! Me who--but I go to be calm! When CASIMIR-PÉRIER resigns I voyage without to lose an instant to Dover, I wait, I receive each instant some despatch, I regard the coast of France and weep, I am photographed! Me, the descendant of St. LOUIS, I am photographed! But in vain! I desire even to die for France, but I may not! By blue, what ingratitude! And now she proclaims the amnesty and I am forgotten! Me, the descendant of St. LOUIS! Me who desire the struggle, the efforts of a life of soldier, of a life of king, me I rest here in simple renter of province! Me who wish to die for France, I am obliged to live in England! To live, just heaven! And in England, which I despise, though she shelters me! Perhaps she is not worse than Belgium, Buckingham or Bruxelles! It is equal to me! Nor the one nor the other is France! Again I weep! Ah, if I could shed tears of blood! I can not! Heaven, that I should not have even that consolation there! And ROCHEFORT returns! He may die for his country, for France! Once more I weep bitterly! But me I may not! I conclude, and my last word shall be a word of order! It shall be, though she spurns me, though she mock herself of me, "Live France!" Again I weep! Receive, &c. P.