DOI issue:
April 23, 1892
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17693#0213
204
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[April 23, 1892.
them to the smoking-room, they will settle down somehow. They
do. The Military Critic gets into a corner with Beilby. The
Americans and I consort together. Most agreeable fellows ; have
been everywhere, and seen everything. Crimpton, luckily, is
reading one of his own reviews in the evening paper. _ I glance at
it; it is a review of the Professor's novel. Not a kind re-view—
rather insulting than otherwise. He hates Beilbv, and he does not
know the Military Critic. If he joins us, there will be more inter-
national discussion. I get them on to the balcony, and pretend to
go to ring the bell for coffee. I whisper to Cewlbton. lie is quite
taken aback. "Awfully sorry; never dreamed the Professor was
not English." He wants to tell the Professor that, thinks he will
be pleased. He apologises to me ; it is dreadfully disagreeable to
be apologised to by a guest "All my fault," I say; and, really,
so it is. Crimpton remembers an evening engagement, and goes off
d VAnglaise.
The Americans go off; say they have enjoyed themselves. I
feel inclined to apologise for Crimpton. On second thoughts,
I don't. They do not look like men who write about their adven-
tures in their native newspapers. Ladies do that. A weight is off
my mind. The Military Writer goes home. He asks, "Who was
that old man who fancied himself so about Sherman's March?"
" That was General Home, who held a command under Sherman."
The Military Writer whistles; wishes I had told him that before
dinner. I wish I had, but I got so flurried and confused. It is
midnight; I am tired to_ death. Yes, Beilby ivill have something
to drink, and another cigar—a very large one. He begins to talk
about the University Match, about all University Matches, about
old scores, and old catches, from Mitchell's year to the present
day. _
It is three o'clock before I get home; the Americans may have
enjoyed themselves, I have not. I dream about the Mad Doctor;
perhaps he will put me into his next book on Incipient Insanity.
Serve me right.
THE YOUNG GIRL'S COMPANION.
{By Mrs. Bayley.)
I.—The Young Girl's Diary.
My very dear young girls, those Arts and accomplishments which
form part of the average education will be taught you by your
Governess, and in some cases, if your parents think it judicious, by
a male Professor. I do not propose in these papers to deal with such
subjects. But there are certain points in the life of the young girl,
about which the handbooks have but little to say, which your
teachers do not include in their course of tuition. Some of these
points are particularly intimate and sentimental. It is here that I
would wish to act as your adviser, and, if I may, as your confidential
friend. I shall always be glad, while these papers are being
published, to receive and an-
swer any letters from young
girls on questions of sentiment
and propriety. If we had no
sentiment, life would not stand
thinking about; if we had no
propriety, life would not stand
talking about. Of the two,
propriety is, perhaps, for the
woman the more important,
but I shall be glad to answer
questions on both. And now
let me say a few words on the
subject of the Young Girl's
Diary.
You must most certainly
keep a Diary.
When I was a young girl of
twenty-eight — it is not so
very long ago—I had my Diary
bound in pale blue watered
silk ; it had three locks and a
little silver key which I wore
on a riband round my neck.
I never took it off except to
-1 mean for the purposes of
the toilette. There was a
pocket at the end of the book,
which would hold a faded
flower or any little souvenir.
I always wrote it in solitude
and by night. Secresy has its
ritual, and it is infinitely sweet
and consoling. If you should ever choose to read any passage from
your Diary to the dearest of your girl-friends, the confidence becomes
m consequence so much more confidential; for she will know that
you are reading to her what was never intended for any human eye
to see, and will enjoy it more._ If you have the least appreciation of
what sentiment really means, if you feel that you are misunderstood,
or if you suffer from the most sacred of all emotions, you will most
certainly keep a Diary.
The entries in the Diary need not be of any great length. I once
had a dear girl-friend who, during the happy season of her first
love, became in the pages of her Diary almost entirely interjectional.
I think this was from natural delicacy. I was recently stopping at
her house, and owing to circumstances over which she bad no
control, I am able to reproduce here the entries which she made in
the few days which culminated in her engagement.
" September 6.—Why ? "
You observe that she is puzzled to account for her own emotions,
and yet hesitates to give the inevitable solution. The intense
reticence of this entry seems to me peculiarly beautiful.
" September 7.—I hate Mary Bindler."
I can remember the circumstances very well, and I am inclined to
think that she had some reason to be jealous of Mary Bindler.
Mary was not at all a nice girl.
" September 8.—Joy, joy, joy! "
I think I can explain this entry. Mary Bindler had been called
away hurriedly. Somebody was dead, or something of that sort.
My friend's expression of relief seems to me very pretty and
natural.
" September 9.—Ah!"
" September 10.—Oh! "
In that little word " Ah! " there is the whole history of a pic-nic
and a carriage accident. It was there that she first guessed his
feelings towards her. Ifam sorry to say that I have not been able to
obtain any adequate explanation of the "Oh!" But I know they
went out after dinner to see if it was possible to play tennis by
moonlight. I conclude that it was not, for the next entry, which
consists simply of a note of exclamation, is really a record of her
engagement.
Of course I need not point out the impropriety of mixing in the
pages of your Diary the record of the most sacred emotions, and
notes of things more commonplace. I knew a girl who invariably
did this. She always commenced with an account of any money
that she might have spent during the day. I have managed, with
considerable difficulty, to make a copy of one of these entries, and
I give it as a warning :—
" Chocolate, one-and-six. Algernon has written to me, asking
me to see him again for the last time. I have written back that my
decision is unalterable. It breaks my heart to have to be so cruel
—but fate wills it, and it's no good fighting against Mamma. Sent
my grey to be cleaned—but it won't look anything when it's done."
In another entry I found the following :—
"A dear long letter from Egbert. How perfect his sympathy is!
Not feeling very well to-day—will always refuse vol-au-vent in
future."
_ I need hardly say that a girl who would chronicle the state of her
digestion and the sympathy of her lover in one paragraph could not
possibly have any soul.
The perfect Diary is something of a paradox. It should be com-
posed chiefly of what is unpublishable—of one's secrets and sentiments
—but it should always be written as if with a view to publication.
In your Diary you can say things about yourself which it would be
conceited to say openly, and you can say things about your friends
which it would be unkind to say openly ; you can make your own
pose seem more real to yourself. So, my dear young girls, take my
advice, and commence Diaries. Ana remember I shall be very glad
to answer any questions on the subject.
Jokim's Latest Little Joke.
{By a many times disappointed Income-Tax Bayer.)
It is out at last, but it falls very flat;
Such a very big " bag," such a very small "cat" !
Popularity Budget ? It can't be called that !
The Budget that was to have been such " good biz,"
And have caused the Election to go with a " whizz,"
Eizzles out in—reducing the duty on Fizz !
Ah, Joktm, my joker, you've hardly the knack
Of holding the Bag, so we '11 give you " the Sack ! "
"Meet it is I set it down."—" Mr. ,T. McN. Whistler," it
was remarked by one of his visitors on the closing day of his recent
Exhibition, "has in his Catalogue put down all unfavourable criti-
cisms." How, in this respect, would all of us like to imitate the
Eccentric Knight of the Order of the Butterfly, and put down all
adverse criticism.
NOTICE—Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, .drawings, or Pictures if any description, will
in no case he returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule
there will be no exception.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[April 23, 1892.
them to the smoking-room, they will settle down somehow. They
do. The Military Critic gets into a corner with Beilby. The
Americans and I consort together. Most agreeable fellows ; have
been everywhere, and seen everything. Crimpton, luckily, is
reading one of his own reviews in the evening paper. _ I glance at
it; it is a review of the Professor's novel. Not a kind re-view—
rather insulting than otherwise. He hates Beilbv, and he does not
know the Military Critic. If he joins us, there will be more inter-
national discussion. I get them on to the balcony, and pretend to
go to ring the bell for coffee. I whisper to Cewlbton. lie is quite
taken aback. "Awfully sorry; never dreamed the Professor was
not English." He wants to tell the Professor that, thinks he will
be pleased. He apologises to me ; it is dreadfully disagreeable to
be apologised to by a guest "All my fault," I say; and, really,
so it is. Crimpton remembers an evening engagement, and goes off
d VAnglaise.
The Americans go off; say they have enjoyed themselves. I
feel inclined to apologise for Crimpton. On second thoughts,
I don't. They do not look like men who write about their adven-
tures in their native newspapers. Ladies do that. A weight is off
my mind. The Military Writer goes home. He asks, "Who was
that old man who fancied himself so about Sherman's March?"
" That was General Home, who held a command under Sherman."
The Military Writer whistles; wishes I had told him that before
dinner. I wish I had, but I got so flurried and confused. It is
midnight; I am tired to_ death. Yes, Beilby ivill have something
to drink, and another cigar—a very large one. He begins to talk
about the University Match, about all University Matches, about
old scores, and old catches, from Mitchell's year to the present
day. _
It is three o'clock before I get home; the Americans may have
enjoyed themselves, I have not. I dream about the Mad Doctor;
perhaps he will put me into his next book on Incipient Insanity.
Serve me right.
THE YOUNG GIRL'S COMPANION.
{By Mrs. Bayley.)
I.—The Young Girl's Diary.
My very dear young girls, those Arts and accomplishments which
form part of the average education will be taught you by your
Governess, and in some cases, if your parents think it judicious, by
a male Professor. I do not propose in these papers to deal with such
subjects. But there are certain points in the life of the young girl,
about which the handbooks have but little to say, which your
teachers do not include in their course of tuition. Some of these
points are particularly intimate and sentimental. It is here that I
would wish to act as your adviser, and, if I may, as your confidential
friend. I shall always be glad, while these papers are being
published, to receive and an-
swer any letters from young
girls on questions of sentiment
and propriety. If we had no
sentiment, life would not stand
thinking about; if we had no
propriety, life would not stand
talking about. Of the two,
propriety is, perhaps, for the
woman the more important,
but I shall be glad to answer
questions on both. And now
let me say a few words on the
subject of the Young Girl's
Diary.
You must most certainly
keep a Diary.
When I was a young girl of
twenty-eight — it is not so
very long ago—I had my Diary
bound in pale blue watered
silk ; it had three locks and a
little silver key which I wore
on a riband round my neck.
I never took it off except to
-1 mean for the purposes of
the toilette. There was a
pocket at the end of the book,
which would hold a faded
flower or any little souvenir.
I always wrote it in solitude
and by night. Secresy has its
ritual, and it is infinitely sweet
and consoling. If you should ever choose to read any passage from
your Diary to the dearest of your girl-friends, the confidence becomes
m consequence so much more confidential; for she will know that
you are reading to her what was never intended for any human eye
to see, and will enjoy it more._ If you have the least appreciation of
what sentiment really means, if you feel that you are misunderstood,
or if you suffer from the most sacred of all emotions, you will most
certainly keep a Diary.
The entries in the Diary need not be of any great length. I once
had a dear girl-friend who, during the happy season of her first
love, became in the pages of her Diary almost entirely interjectional.
I think this was from natural delicacy. I was recently stopping at
her house, and owing to circumstances over which she bad no
control, I am able to reproduce here the entries which she made in
the few days which culminated in her engagement.
" September 6.—Why ? "
You observe that she is puzzled to account for her own emotions,
and yet hesitates to give the inevitable solution. The intense
reticence of this entry seems to me peculiarly beautiful.
" September 7.—I hate Mary Bindler."
I can remember the circumstances very well, and I am inclined to
think that she had some reason to be jealous of Mary Bindler.
Mary was not at all a nice girl.
" September 8.—Joy, joy, joy! "
I think I can explain this entry. Mary Bindler had been called
away hurriedly. Somebody was dead, or something of that sort.
My friend's expression of relief seems to me very pretty and
natural.
" September 9.—Ah!"
" September 10.—Oh! "
In that little word " Ah! " there is the whole history of a pic-nic
and a carriage accident. It was there that she first guessed his
feelings towards her. Ifam sorry to say that I have not been able to
obtain any adequate explanation of the "Oh!" But I know they
went out after dinner to see if it was possible to play tennis by
moonlight. I conclude that it was not, for the next entry, which
consists simply of a note of exclamation, is really a record of her
engagement.
Of course I need not point out the impropriety of mixing in the
pages of your Diary the record of the most sacred emotions, and
notes of things more commonplace. I knew a girl who invariably
did this. She always commenced with an account of any money
that she might have spent during the day. I have managed, with
considerable difficulty, to make a copy of one of these entries, and
I give it as a warning :—
" Chocolate, one-and-six. Algernon has written to me, asking
me to see him again for the last time. I have written back that my
decision is unalterable. It breaks my heart to have to be so cruel
—but fate wills it, and it's no good fighting against Mamma. Sent
my grey to be cleaned—but it won't look anything when it's done."
In another entry I found the following :—
"A dear long letter from Egbert. How perfect his sympathy is!
Not feeling very well to-day—will always refuse vol-au-vent in
future."
_ I need hardly say that a girl who would chronicle the state of her
digestion and the sympathy of her lover in one paragraph could not
possibly have any soul.
The perfect Diary is something of a paradox. It should be com-
posed chiefly of what is unpublishable—of one's secrets and sentiments
—but it should always be written as if with a view to publication.
In your Diary you can say things about yourself which it would be
conceited to say openly, and you can say things about your friends
which it would be unkind to say openly ; you can make your own
pose seem more real to yourself. So, my dear young girls, take my
advice, and commence Diaries. Ana remember I shall be very glad
to answer any questions on the subject.
Jokim's Latest Little Joke.
{By a many times disappointed Income-Tax Bayer.)
It is out at last, but it falls very flat;
Such a very big " bag," such a very small "cat" !
Popularity Budget ? It can't be called that !
The Budget that was to have been such " good biz,"
And have caused the Election to go with a " whizz,"
Eizzles out in—reducing the duty on Fizz !
Ah, Joktm, my joker, you've hardly the knack
Of holding the Bag, so we '11 give you " the Sack ! "
"Meet it is I set it down."—" Mr. ,T. McN. Whistler," it
was remarked by one of his visitors on the closing day of his recent
Exhibition, "has in his Catalogue put down all unfavourable criti-
cisms." How, in this respect, would all of us like to imitate the
Eccentric Knight of the Order of the Butterfly, and put down all
adverse criticism.
NOTICE—Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, .drawings, or Pictures if any description, will
in no case he returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule
there will be no exception.