Punch, or The London Charivari | Page 8

CARRIES IT ISSELF, JUST LIKE A FOOTMAN!"]
* * * * *
TO A MODEL YOUNG LADY.
[It is reported that it is a common custom in Paris, amongst ladies of
position, to pay for their dresses by wearing them in public, and letting
it be known from whom they obtained them.]
My dear, I like your pretty dress, It suits your figure to a T. I'm free to
own that I confess, It's just the kind of dress for me. Yet will you kindly
tell me, dear, Not merely was the costume made for Yourself alone--but
is it clear And certain that your dress is paid for?
Mistake me not. I do not dread That you'll think fit to run away And

leave the bill unpaid. Instead, I fear that you will never pay, Because no
bill will ever come; And since when you decide to toddle Abroad,
you'll go amidst a hum Of praise for Madame's lovely Model
Oh! promise me that when I read My paper (as I often do), I shall not
with remorseless speed See endless pars in praise of you, Or rather of
the dress you wore, For though, maybe, no harm or hurt is meant,
Remember, dearest, I implore, I _won't_ be fond of an advertisement!
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
"_Days with Sir Roger de Coverley!_" exclaimed the Baron, on seeing
the charming little book brought out at this season by Messrs.
MACMILLAN. "Delightful! Immortal! Ever fresh! Welcome, with or
without illustration; some of Mr. THOMSON's would not be missed."
There is a breezy, frank, boyish air about the "Reminiscences" of our
great Baritone, CHARLES SANTLEY, which is as a tonic--a tonic
sol-fa--to the reader a-weary of the many Reminiscences of these latter
days. SANTLEY, who seems to have made his way by stolid pluck,
and without very much luck, may be considered as the musical Mark
Tapley, ready to look always on the sunny side. With a few rare
exceptions, he appears to have taken life very easily.
Muchly doth the Baron like Mr. HALL CAINE's story of _Captain
Davy's Honeymoon_, only, short as it is, with greater effect it might
have been shorter.
The Baron, being in a reading humour, tried The Veiled Hand, by
FREDERICK WICKS, a name awkward for anyone unable to manage
his "r's." What Fwedewickwicks' idea of A Veiled Hand is, the Baron
has tried to ascertain, but without avail. Why not a Gloved Hand?
Hands do not wear veils, any more than our old friends, the Hollow
Hearts, wear masks. Hands take "vails," but "that is another story."
However, The Veiled Hand induced sleep, so the Baron extinguished
both candles and Wicks at the same time, and slumbered.

I have also had time to read An Exquisite Fool, published by OSGOOD.
MCILVAINE & CO., and written by Nobody, Nobody's name being
mentioned as being the author. It begins well, but it is an old, old
tale--BLANCHE AMORY and the Chevalier, and so forth--and as Sir
Charles Coldstream observed, when he looked down the crater of
Mount Vesuvius, "There's nothing in it."
Most interesting is a short paper on "The Green Room of the Comédie
Française," in the English Illustrated Magazine for this month,
pleasantly written by Mr. FREDERICK HAWKINS,--HAWKINS with
an aspirate, not "'ENERY 'AWKINS" at present associated with "A
CHEVALIER" in London. Mr. HAWKINS tells many amusing
anecdotes, and gives a capital sketch of M. RENÉ MOLÉ. But the
article would be damaged by extracts. Therefore, "_Tolle, lege_," says
yours and everybody's, very truly,
THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "SAFE BIND, SAFE FIND!"
SERGENT-DE-VILLE. "HA, M'SIEU!--YOU HAVE YOUR
DYNAMITERS UNDER LOCK AND KEY! TRÈS BIEN! KEEP
THEM!!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: WHAT ABOUT GLASS HOUSES?
First Jovial Cabby (_to Second Ditto_). "HI SAY, BILL, DID YER
HEVER SEE SICH GUYS AS THESE 'ERE GIRLS MAKES OF
THEIRSELVES? NOW, YE'D NIVER SEE A MAN GO AND MAKE
SUCH A RIDIK'LOUS HOBJICK OF 'ISSELF!!"]
* * * * *
A PUFF OF SMOKE.

(_What the heart of the young Vocalist said to the Anti-Tobacconist,
after reading Mr. Charles Santley's sage observations on Singing and
Smoking, in his new book "Student and Singer."_)
["Smoking is an art; it may be made useful or otherwise, according as it
is exercised."--Mr. SANTLEY.]
Tell me not, ye mournful croakers, Smoking is a dirty habit. Brainless
are ye, sour non-smokers, As a vivisected rabbit.
"Smoking is an Art," says SANTLEY; There is Beauty in the bowl.
They who doubt it must be scantly Blest with sense, or dowered with
soul.
As an Art it claims attention; Study is the only way. Smoking skill, not
smoke-prevention, Is the thing we want to-day.
Art is long and smoke is fleeting; But puff on until you learn Good