Punch, Or The London Charivari | Page 9

Volume One; but
stick to it, and avoid skipping. A selfish mean cuss is the "hero," so to
style him; and personally, the Baron would consider him in Society as a
first-class artistic bore. The character is drawn with great skill, as are
they all. The description of _Mrs. Crookendon's_ after-dinner party is
as life-like as if it were a well-staged scene in a well-written and
well-cast Drama.
"I have been dipping into _Country House Sketches_, by C.C. RHYS,"
says the Baron, "and have come to the conclusion that if the author,
youthful I fancy, would give himself time, and have the patience to
'follow my LEVER,' the result would be a _Jack Hinton Junior_, with a
smack of Soapey Sponge in it." The short stories are all, more or less,
good, and would be still better but for a certain cocksureness about
them which savours of the man in a country house who will insist on
telling you a series of good stories about himself, one after the other,

until the guests in the smoking-room, in sheer despair of ever getting
their turn of talking about themselves, or of turning on the tap of their
own good stories, light their candles, yawn, and go pensively to bed.
My "Faithful Co." informs me that he has been reading some very
excellent _Sketches of England_, by a "Foreign Artist," and a "Foreign
Author." The latter is no less a person than the genial representative of
the _Journal des Débats_ in London, Mons. P. VILLARS. My "Co."
says that, take it all round, this is one of the best books upon La Perfide
Albion he has ever read. Both scribe and illustrator are evidently fond
of the "Foreigners" they find in the British Isles. Mons. VILLARS,
however, makes one startling assertion, which has taken my "Co," by
surprise. The "Foreign Author" declares that "laughter never struck his
ears." Now our Monsieur is an admirable _raconteur_, and if he ever
told one of his capital stories to an Englishman of average intelligence,
he must have heard laughter. He has also read a rather strange work
called, _What will Mrs. Grundy say?_ My "Co." declares that,
considering its subject, the book, which is not without merit, might be
recommended as a disciplinary exercise during Lent.
Says "Co. Junior," to the Baron, "Sir, I've just come across AUSTIN
DOBSON and his Four Frenchwomen." "Hold!" cries the Baron,
frowning. "No scandal." "Nay, Sir," quoth "Co. Junior," nervously. "'tis
but the title of a book." "That is another thing," says the Baron, waving
his hand, "proceed!" "It is about Mlle. DE CORDAY, Madame
ROLAND, the Princesse DE LAMBALLE, and Madame DE GENLIS.
I recommend it, Sir. _Tolle, Lege!_ "And with a bow "Co. Junior,"
withdraws from the presence.
Quoth the Baron, "I was looking again into _Saint Monica_, just to see
if I might like it any better than I did on the first occasion--which, "with
me hand upon me hearrt," as Doctor O'Q. says, I cannot say I
do,--when I came upon the following misprint,--"_This woman,
nevertheless, worshipped him as the god of her idoltary._" It's a
beautiful word, "idoltary," and so much better than the ordinary way of
spelling it. So, after all, there is more in Saint Monica than I had
expected. In fact, its chief fault is that it is too much spun out; and, just

at this time, Saint Monica mustn't be associated in any sort of way with
the House at Cambridge where they spin.
THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.
* * * * *
TO A DÉBUTANTE.
Fair Maiden of unclouded brow Who, gaily, 'mid the gay the gayest, To
England, Home, and Duty now Oblation payest.
Gay seeming,--if the milliner's Can cheer, the florist's homage sightly;
And yet, unless my fancy errs, Thou shudderest slightly.
Is it a sigh for childhood's bliss, A dread of what is coming, come what
May matrimonially--or is It draughty somewhat?
St. James's corridors are long As Art, as Life thy raiment brief is
(Except the train, of course)--and strong Mamma's relief is.
In vulgar phrase, "Your mother knows You're _out_," at length. Such
triumphs too dear Are sometimes purchased. I suppose She fidgets you,
dear.
"The Countess!--bow, child, to the Earl!-- Those terrible HYDE
PARKES! Their posies Look quite too vulgar; cut them, girl. How red
your nose is!
"Quick! take the powder-puff, my love-- Not on your bouquet or your
hair now!-- Don't bungle so; you'll drop that glove-- Please take more
care now.
"You stoop like any bourgeoise chit. Who'd think you educated highly?
No, not so stiff. Do blush a bit, And simper shyly."
Ah! Maiden fair of cloudless air. This kind of thing is hardly pleasant.
Indeed, I'm thankful not to wear Thy shoes at present!

* * * * *
"THE FLOWERS