Punch, or The London Charivari | Page 2

a column. The notice was headed:--
"MR. HIGLINSON ADVERTISES HIMSELF AGAIN."
Other newspapers also amused themselves, and HIGLINSON became
notorious. The Blacking-cream sold better than ever, and brought him
enormous profits. But if he attempted to spend those profits on any
object, good or bad, it was always insisted that he was simply doing it
for advertisement. The public became interested in HIGLINSON; and
untrue stories about his private life appeared freely in personal columns.

He was rich enough now to have relinquished his business, but those
idiotic notions about pluck prevented him from doing this. He meant to
go through with it, and to make the public believe in him just as much
as they believed in the Blacking-cream. He found about this time
someone who did believe in him; he began to change his views about
marriage; he was to some extent consoled.
He was passing over the bridge one night, and had just bought an
evening paper. His own name caught his eye. It was the usual
paragraph, not more hateful to him than others that had appeared, as far
as he himself was concerned; but her name was in it as well, and he
imagined to himself just how she would feel when she read it. He
walked on a few paces, and then his pluck all vanished suddenly, as if it
had been blown away into space, and it did not seem to be worth while
to stop in such a world any longer.
The jury returned the usual verdict; but The Scalpel did not hesitate to
hint that this suicide had simply been intended as an advertisement, and
that HIGLINSON had always supposed that his rescue would be a
certainty.
He might have saved himself all this, of course, by a few full-page
advertisements in The Scalpel. But then he had those idiotic notions
about pluck, and he was reluctant to bribe his enemies. It is a very
dangerous thing to have notions about anything.
* * * * *
WANTED, A WORD-SLAYER.
_Fin de Siècle!_ Ah, that phrase, though taste spurn it, I Fear, threatens
staying with us to eternity. Who will deliver Our nerves, all a-quiver,
From that pest-term, and its fellow "modernity"?
* * * * *
[Illustration: AT THE DOOR; OR, PATERFAMILIAS AND THE
YOUNG SPARK.
Electric Light. "WHAT, WON'T YOU LET ME IN--A DEAR LITTLE
CHAP LIKE ME?"
Householder. "AH! YOU'RE A LITTLE TOO DEAR FOR ME--AT
PRESENT."]
* * * * *

AT THE DOOR; OR, PATERFAMILIAS AND THE YOUNG
SPARK.
(_AN ELECTRICAL ECLOGUE._)
["The cost is still heavy, no doubt, and the electric light still stands in
the category of luxuries which are almost beyond the reach of average
middle-class incomes."--_The "Times" on the growth of Electric
Lighting in London._]
_ELECTRIC SPRITE._
Old boy, let me in! Come, now, don't you be stupid! Why stand at your
door in that dubious way? Like the classical girl who was called on by
Cupid, You seem half alarmed at the thought of my stay. With
meanings of mischief my mind is not laden; Be sure, my dear friend,
that I shall not sell _you_, As the artful young archer-god did the poor
maiden, Who let him in only his visit to rue. I hope you've not listened
to enemies' strictures, They've warned you, perhaps, against letting me
pass, I shan't soil your ceiling, I shan't spoil your pictures, Or make
nasty smells like that dirty imp, Gas! You're prejudiced clearly, and
that is a pity, Why, bless you, I'm spreading all over the place! My
spark is pervading the whole of the City; The dingy old Gas-flame must
soon hide its face. I'm brilliant, and clean, and delightfully larky; Just
look at my glow and examine my arc! _Fwizz!_ How's that for high,
and for vivid and sparky! I obviate dirt, and I dissipate dark. You just
let me in; the result you'll be charmed at. Objections, Old Boy, are all
fiddle-de-dee. Come now! I'm sure you cannot be alarmed at A dear
little chap like me!
_PATERFAMILIAS._
A dear little chap! Very true; but I'm thinking That you're just a little
too "dear" for me--yet! Ah, yes! it's no use to stand smiling and
winking; I like the bright ways of you, youngster,--you bet! You're
white as the moon, and as spry as a rocket; No doubt all you say in
self-praise is quite true, But you see, boy, I must keep an eye to my
pocket! The Renters and Raters so put on the screw, That a

"middle-class income" won't stand much more squeezing, And Forty or
Fifty Pounds more in the year. For your bright companionship, albeit
pleasing, Would come pretty stiff, my boy. That is my fear. Just
cheapen yourself, in supply and in fitting, To something that