Punch, or The London Charivari | Page 3

whose piquant savour and quaint originality of style are good for jaded brains, buy and read In a Canadian Canoe by BARRY PAIN, the sixth volume of the Whitefriars Library of Wit and Humour (HENRY & Co.). Most of the stories and, I think, the best that go to make up this delightful volume have already appeared in _The Granta_, a Cambridge magazine, which London papers are accustomed to speak of as "our sprightly contemporary." They now seek and are sure to obtain a wider public and a more extended fame. There is in these stories a curious mixture of humour, insight and pathos, with here and there a dash of grimness and a sprinkling of that charming irrelevancy which is of the essence of true humour. Occasionally Mr. BARRY PAIN wings a shaft against the comfortably brutal doctrines of the average and orthodox householder, male or female. But on these occasions he uses the classical fables and the pagan deities as his bow, and the twang of his shot cannot offend those who play the part of target and are pierced. Read the four stories from the "Entertainments of Kapnides" in the "Canadian Canoe" series, or, "An Hour of Death," "The Last Straw," and "Number One Hundred and Three" in "The Nine Muses Minus One," and you will see at once what I mean. Then for run-away, topsy-turvey wit I think I would back "The Story of the Tin Heart" and "The Camel who never got Started," against most stories I know. Mr. BARRY PAIN's stories sometimes make me feel as if I had got hold of the key-handle of things which have hitherto been puzzles to me. I turn it, open the door ever so little to peep inside, and before I have taken a good square look, Mr. BARRY PAIN slams the door in my face, and I think I can hear him laughing on the other side at the bruise on my forehead. That's not kind treatment, but it promotes curiosity. As for "The Celestial Grocery," I can only say of it that it is in its way a masterpiece. Mr. PAIN sometimes gives way to a touch or two of sentiment, but he abstains from sloppiness. His book is not only witty and humorous but fresh and original in style. It is admirably written. His prose is good,--which is moderate praise, striking a balance between the pros and cons of criticism. _Prosit!_ To all holiday-makers who like quaintness and fun touched with pathos and refinement, I say again, buy and read In a Canadian Canoe.
BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.
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[Illustration: THE HEIGHT OF FASTIDIOUSNESS.
Elder Brother. "HULLO, FRANK! HOW IS IT YOU'RE NOT IN MOURNING FOR POOR AUNT GRACE?"
Frank. "AH--WELL--FACT IS, I TRIED ON SIXTEEN OR SEVENTEEN HAT-BANDS, AND COULDN'T _GET ONE TO SUIT ME!_"]
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"PUGS" AND "MUGS."
(_A QUOTATION WITH A COMMENT._)
"The faithful study of the fistic art From mawkish softness guards the British heart." The study of the betting British curse From swift depletion guards the British purse!
* * * * *
THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.
NO. IV.
SCENE--_The Wiertz Museum at Brussels, a large and well-lighted gallery containing the works of the celebrated Belgian, which are reducing a limited number of spectators to the usual degree of stupefaction. Enter CULCHARD, who seats himself on a central ottoman._
Culchard (_to himself_). If PODBURY won't come down to breakfast at a decent hour, he can't complain if I--I wonder if he heard Miss TROTTER say she was thinking of coming here this morning. Somehow, I should like that girl to have a more correct comprehension of my character. I don't so much mind her thinking me fastidious and exclusive. I daresay I _am_--but I do object to being made out a hopeless melancholiac! (_He looks round the walls._) So these are WIERTZ's masterpieces, eh? h'm. Strenuous, vigorous,--a trifle crude, perhaps. Didn't he refuse all offers for his pictures during his lifetime? Hardly think he could have been overwhelmed with applications for the one opposite. (_He regards an enormous canvas, representing a brawny and gigantic Achilles perforating a brown Trojan with a small mast._) Not a dining-room picture. Still, I like his independence--work up rather well in a sonnet. Let me see. (_He takes out note-book and scribbles._) "He scorned to ply his sombre brush for hire." Now if I read that to PODBURY, he'd pretend to think I was treating of a Shoe-black on strike! PODBURY is utterly deficient in reverence.
[Illustration: "I presume, though, he slept bad, nights."]
[_Close by is a party of three Tourists--a Father and Mother, and a Daughter; who is reading to them aloud from the somewhat effusive Official Catalogue; the Education of all three appears to have been elementary._
The Daughter (_spelling out the words laboriously_). "I could not 'elp fancying this was the