Punch (99.1890)

280

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [December 13, 1890.

but he was made to go, by the author, Mr. Manviele Fenn. Once
launched, he proved himself a British salt of the first water. _ Dumps
and I, by Mrs. Pare, is a particularly pretty book for girls, and
quite on a par with her other works. Methuen & Co. publish these.

Pictures and Stories from English History, and Royal Portrait
Gallery, are two Royal Prize Books for the historioal-minded child ;
they are published by T. Nelson and Sons, as likewise " Fritz" of
Prussia, Germany's Second Emperor, by Lucr Taylob. Dictionary
of Idiomatic English Phrases, by James Main Dixon, M.A.,
F.R.S E., which may prove a useful guide to benighted foreigners
in assisting them to solve the usual British vagaries of speech ; like
the commencement of the Dictionary, it is quite an " A 1" book.

" Dear Diary !" as one of Mr. F. C. Phillips's heroines used to
address her little book, but De la Rue's are not " dear Diaries,"
nor particularly cheap ones. This publisher is_ quite the Artful
Dodger in devising diaries in all shapes and sizes, from the big
pocket-book to the more insidious waistcoat-pocket booklet,—" small
by degrees, but beautifully less."

" Here's to you, Tom Smith !"—it's Brown in the song, but no
matter,—''Here's to you," sings the Baron, "with all my heart!,"
Your comic gutta-percha-faced Crackers are a novelty; in fact,
you've solved a difficulty by introducing into our old Christmas
Crackers several new features.

This year the Baron gives the prize for pictorial amusement to
Lothae Meggendokfer (Gods ! what a name !), who, assisted by his
publishers, Gkevbl & Co., has produced an irresistibly funny book
of movable figures, entitled Comic Actors. "What these coloured
actors do is so moving, that the spectators will be in fits of chuckling.
Recommended, says The Baron be Book-Wobms.

"where ignorance is bliss."

Argument.—Edwin has taken Angelina, his fiancee, to an entertain-
ment by a Mesmerist, and, wi-hing to set his doubts at rest has gone upon
the platform, and placed himself entirely at the Mesmerist's disposition. On
rejoining Angelina, she has insisted upon being taken home immediately,
and has cried all the way back in the hansom—much to Edwin's perplexity.
They are ahme together, in a Morning-room; Angelina is still sobbing in
an arm-chair, and Edwin is rubbing his ear as he stands on the hearthrug.

Edwin. I say, Angelina, don't go on like this, or we shall have
somebody coming in! I wouldn't have gone up if I'd known it
would upset you like this; but I only wanted to make quite sure
that the whole thing was humbug, and—[complacently)—I rather
think I settled that.

Ang. (in choked accents). You settled that ?—but how ? . . . .
Oh, go away—I can't bear to think of it all! [Fresh outburst.

Ed. You 're a little nervous, dar-
ling, that's all—and you see, 1 'm
all right. I felt a little drowsy once,
but I knew perfectly well what I
was about all the time.

Ang. {with a bound). You knew ?
— then you were pretending — and
you call that a good joke ! Oh !

Ed. Hardly pretending. 1 just
sat still, with my eyes shut, and the
fellow stroked my face a bit. I
waited to see if anything would come
of it—and nothing did, that's all.
At least, I'm not aware that I did
anything peculiar. In fact, I'm
certain I didn't. [Uneasily.) Eh,
Angelina P _

Ang. [indistinctly, owing to her
fane being buried in cushions). If
you d-d-d-on't really know, you'd bub-bub-better-not ask—but
I believe you do - quite well!

Ed. Look here, Angie, if I behaved at all out of the common,
it's just as well that I should know it. I don't recollect it, that's
all. Do pull yourself together, and tell me all about it.

Ang. (sitting up). Very well—if you will have it, you must.
But you can't really have forgotten how you stood before the foot-
lights, making the most horrible faces, as if you were in front of
a looking-glass. All those other oreatures were doing it, too;
but, oh, Edwin, yours were far the ugliest—they haunt me still.
. . . . I mustn't think of them—I won't! \_Buries her face again.

Ed. (reddening painfully). No, I say—did IP not really—with-
out humbug, Angelina !

Ang. You know best if it was without humbug ! And, after
that, he gave you a glass of cuc-cod-liver oil, and—and pup-pup-
paraffin, and you dud-drank it up, and asked for more, and said
it was the bub-bub-best Scotch whiskey you ever tasted. You
oughtn't even to know about Scotoh whiskey!

Ed. I oan't know much if I did that. Odd I shouldn't remember
it, though. Was that all ?

Ang. Oh, no. After that you sang—a dreadful song—and pre-
tended to acoompany yourself on a broom. Edwin, you know you
did; you can't deny it!

Ed. I—I didn't know I could sing ; and—did you say on a broom ?
It's bad enough for me already, Angelina, without howling ! Well,
I sang—and what then ?

Ang. Then he put out a cane with a silver top close to your face,
and you squinted at it, and followed it about everywhere with your
nose; you must have known how utterly idiotic you looked!

Ed. (dropping into a chair). Not at the time. . , . Well, go on,
Angelina ; let's have it all. What next ?

Ang. Next P Oh, next he told you you were the Champion Acrobat
of the World, and you began to strike foolish attitudes, and turn
great clumsy somersaults all over the stage, and you always came
down on the flat of your back !

Ed. I thought I felt a trifle stiff. Somersaults, eh? Anything
else ? (With forced calm.)
Ang. I did think I should have died of shame when you danced ?
Ed. Oh, I danced, did I ? Hum— er—was I alone ?
Ang. There were four other wretches dancing too, and you imitated
a ballet. You were dressed up in an artificial wreath and a gug-
gug-gauze skirt.

Ed. (collapsing). No P ? IwasnH! . . . Heavens! Whatabounder
I must have looked! But I say, Angie, it was all right, I suppose ?
I mean to say I wasn't exactly vulgar, or that sort of thing, eh ?

Ang. Not vulgar ? Oh, Edwin ? I can only say I was truly
thankful Mamma wasn't there !

Ed. (wincing). Now, don't, Angelina it's quite awful enough
as it is. What beats me is how on earth I came to do it all.

Ang. You see, Edwin, I wouldn't have minded so much if I had
had the least idea you were like that.

Ed. Like that! Good Heavens. Angib, am I in the habit of
making hideous grimaces before a looking-glass p Do you suppose
I am given to over-indulgence in cod-liver oil and whatever the
other beastliness was P Am I acrobatic in my calmer moments P Did
you ever know me sing—with or without a broom? I'm a shy man
by nature (pathetically), more shy than you think, perhaps,—and in
my normal condition, I should be the last person to prance about in a
gauze skirt for the amusement of a couple of hundred idiots ? I don't
believe I did, either!

Ang. (impressed by his evident sincerity). But you said you knew
what you were about all the time !

Ed. I thought so, then. Now—well, hang it, I Buppose there's
more in this infernal Mesmerism than I fancied. There, it's no use
talking about it—it's done. You—you won't mind shaking hands
before I go, will you ? Just for the last time ?
Ang. (alarmed). Why—where are you going?
Ed. (desperate). Anywhere—go out and start on tranche, or some-
thing, or join the Colonial Police force. Anything's better than
staying on here after the stupendous ass I've made of myself!
Ang. But—but, Edwin, I daresay nobody noticed it much.
Ed. According to you, I must have been a pretty conspicuous
object.

Ang. Yes—only, you see, I—I daTesay they'd only think you
were a confederate or something—no, I don't mean that—but, after
all, indeed you didn't make such very awful faces. I—I liked some
of them!

Ed. (incredulously). But you said they haunted you—and then
the oil, and the somersaults, and the ballet-dancing. No, it's no
use, Angelina, I can see you '11 never get over this. It's better to
part and have done with it!

Ang. (gradually retracting). Oh, but listen. I—I didn't mean quite
all I said j ust now. I mixed things up. It was really whiskey he gave
you, only he said it was paraffin, and so you wouldn't drink it, and you
did sing, but it was only about some place where an old horse died, and
it was somebody else who had the broom! And you didn't dance nearly
so much as the others, and—and whatever you did, you were never in
the least ridiculous. (Earnestly). You weren't, really, Edwin !

Ed. (relieved). Well, I thought you must have been exaggerating
a little. Why, look here, for all you know, you may have been
mistaking somebody else for me all the time—don't you see ?

Ang. I—I am almost sure I did, now. Yes, why, of course—how
stupid I have been! It was someone very like you—not you at all!

Ed. (resentfully). Well, I must say, Angelina, that to give a
fellow a fright like this, all for nothing-

Ang. Yes—yes, it was all for nothing, it was so silly of me.
Foreive me, Edwin, please!

Ed. (still aggrieved). I know for a fact that I didn't so much as
leave my chair, and to say I danced, Angelina !

Ang. (eagerly). But I don't. I remember now, you sat perfectly
still the whole time, he—he said he could do nothing with you, don't
you recollect ? (Aside.) Oh, what stories I'm telling!

Ed. (with recovered dignity). Of course I recollect—perfectly.
Well, Angelina, I'm not annoyed, of course, darling; but another
time, you should really try to observe more closely what is done and
who does it—before making all this fuss about nothing.