The Result of an Imprudent Marriage (by our own Matrimonial Adviser).—County Court-ship.

THE IDEAL HUSBAND

My dear Ethel,—You ask me what "sort of a husband" I recommend. My dear, ask me the name of a dressmaker, of a doctor, or of a (ugh!) dentist, and I can tell you precisely. I can name the man. But what sort of a husband! Well, after sifting the matter carefully, and after looking before you leap, and after an experience of some few years of married life, I say, decidedly, choose a man ...

WHO LIKES TO GO SHOPPING.

You will find him very useful if managed judiciously; he will prove an immense saving to you, as if you went alone you would have to tip porters, and squabble with cabmen. Then from a certain view I should advise some of those "about to marry" to select a man who has no club. But this is an exceptional case. Finally, if you wish to be strictly economical, and to live in the suburbs, or in the country, and if your husband has no occupation or profession, then I should say, in order that you may attend assiduously to your domestic duties, which include visiting, five o'clock teas, and so forth, then ascertain that your husband is of a maternal disposition, and one ...

WHO DOES THIS.

If I think of anything else I will let you know. But, above all, please yourself, and by so doing you will delight

Yours affectionately,

Dora.

TO A RICH YOUNG WIDOW.

"So Selfish?"—Husband (with pride). "My love, I've been effecting—I've insured my life to-day for ten thousand pou——"

Young Wife. "Just like the men! Always looking out for themselves! I think—you might have insured mine while you were about it!!"

By a Fashionable Young Married Woman.—The latest thing out—My husband.

Celibacy and Wedlock.—If single life is bad, then it stands to reason that double life is twice as bad.

Employment for Women.—Matchmaking.

THE "OFF" SEASON

Paper for the Newly-Married..—The Economist.

"À Propos!"—Sententious Old Bachelor (in the course of conversation). "As the 'old saw' has it, my dear madam, 'Man proposes, but——'"

Motto for the Divorce Court.—Marry, and come up!

LOVE LETTERS OF A BUSINESS MAN.

The course of true love, though beset with almost insurmountable obstacles, often rewards the faithful lovers at the last with supreme happiness. But, alas! sometimes the said true love proves naught but a toboggan-slide leading to a precipice, into which the true lovers' hopes are hurled and dashed into atomic smithereens.

We have before us a volume of a "Business Man's Love Letters," a few extracts from which we give below. Reader, if you have a tear, prepare to shed it now! The burning passion which surges in the lover's heart, though embodied in phrases habitually used by a business man, is sure to touch your soul. But presently comes the pathetic ending, when she is no longer anything to him, and he—to use the imperfect but comprehensive vernacular—is to her as "dead as a door nail." Reader, read on!

I.

August 1, 1899.

Dear Miss Smythe,—With reference to my visit last evening at the house of Mr. John Jorkins, our mutual friend, when I had the pleasure of meeting you.

Having been much charmed by your conversation and general attractiveness, I beg to inquire whether you will allow me to cultivate the acquaintanceship further.

Awaiting the favour of your esteemed reply,

Yours faithfully,

John Green.

II.

August 3, 1899.

My Dear Miss Smythe,—I beg to acknowledge with many thanks receipt of your letter of even date, contents of which I note with much pleasure.

I hope to call this evening at 7.15 p.m., when I trust to find you at home.

With kindest regards, I beg to remain,

Yours very truly,

John Green.

III.

August 21, 1899.

My dearest Evelina,—Referring to our conversation this evening when you consented to become my wife.

I beg to confirm the arrangement then made, and would suggest the wedding should take place within the ensuing six months. No doubt you will give the other necessary details your best consideration, and will communicate your views to me in due course.

Trusting there is every happiness before us,

I remain,    

Your darling Chickabiddy,

John.

IV.

August 22, 1899.

My ownest Tootsey-wootsey,—Enclosed please find 22-carat gold engagement ring, set with thirteen diamonds and three rubies, receipt of which kindly acknowledge by return.

Trusting same will give every satisfaction,

I am,      

Your only lovey-dovey,

Johnny.    

X X X X X X      Kindly note kisses.

V.

November 24, 1899.

My sweetest Evelina,—I am duly in receipt of your letter of 20th inst., which I regret was not answered before owing to pressure of business.

In reply thereto I beg to state that I do love you dearly, and only you, and also no one else in all the world. Further I shall have much pleasure in continuing to love you for evermore, and no one else in all the world.

Trusting to see you this evening as usual and in good health.

I am, Your ownest own,

John.    

VI.

January 4, 1900.

To Miss Smythe, Madam,—In accordance with the intention expressed in my letter of yesterday, I duly forwarded addressed to you a parcel containing all letters, etc., received from you, and presume they have been safely delivered.

I have received to-day, per carrier, a parcel containing various letters which I have written to you from time to time. No doubt it was your intention to despatch the complete number written by me, but I notice one dated August 21 is not included. Will you kindly forward the letter in question by return, when I will send you a full receipt?

Yours faithfully,

John Green.

VII.

January 6, 1900.

To Miss Smythe, Madam,—I beg to acknowledge receipt of your letter of yesterday, and note your object in retaining my letter of August 21 last. As I intend to defend the issue in the case, I shall do as you request, and will leave all further communications to be made through my solicitors.

Yours, &c.,

John Green.

VIII.

15, Peace Court, Temple, E.C.

Messrs. Bang, Crash & Co.,

9a, Quarrel Row, E.C.

Smythe v. Green.

Gentlemen,—We are in receipt of your communication of yesterday's date, with which you enclose copy of letter dated August 21. We note that you state the document in question has been duly stamped at Somerset House, and are writing our client this evening with a view to offering your client terms, through you, to stay the proceedings which have been commenced.

Yours faithfully,

Blithers, Blathers, Blothers & Co.

Strange but True.—When does a husband find his wife out? When he finds her at home and she doesn't expect him.

The Luxury of Liberty.

Bosom Friend. "Well, dear, now that you are a widow, tell me are you any the happier for it?"

Interesting Widow. "Oh! no. But I have my freedom, and that's a great comfort. Do you know, my dear, I had an onion yesterday for the first time these fourteen years?"

"The Silly Season."—The Honeymoon.

Consolation.

Mother-in-law. "I'll be bound that Robert—I've lost all patience with him—never dined with you on Michaelmas-day, my dear?"

Daughter. "No, mamma, but he sent me home a goose."

Mother-in-law. "Psha! Done in a fit of absence, my dear."

THE HUSBAND'S REVENGE

A Warning to Wives who will keep bad Cooks

Matrimony (by our Musical Cynic).—The common c(h)ord of two flats.

REFLECTIONS ON A BROKEN ENGAGEMENT

Curious Distinction.—The English love; the French make love.—Madame Punch.

Great Expectations.—Ethel (youngest daughter). "Oh, pa dear, what did Geo—— what did young Mr. Brown want?" Pa. "Secret, my love. 'Wished to speak to me privately!" Ethel. "Oh, pa, but do tell me—'cause he was so very attentive to me before you came in—and then asked me to leave the room." Pa. "Well, my dear"—(in a whisper)—"he'd left his purse at the office, and wanted to borrow eighteenpence to pay his train home!"

"Sharp's the Word!"—Wife. "Poor mamma is dreadfully low-spirited this morning, George. Only think—she has just expressed a wish to be cremated!" Husband (with alacrity). "'O'b-less my——" (Throwing down his newspaper.) "Tell her to put her things on, dear! I'll—I'll drive her over at once!!"

PROFESSIONAL LOVE-LETTERS

I

From Mr. Norman Dormer, Architect and Surveyor, to Miss Caroline Tower.

My Precious,

Pity me who must stay and fret in London, while you are enjoying yourself at Broadstairs. How I long to be there, surveying the ocean by your side, and tracing your dear name on the sands! But fate and a father have placed a barrier between us. So I pace up and down before the old house in T———— Square, and look up at a certain dormitory on the second story—in no state of elevation you may be sure—and make plans for the future, and build castles in the air, and try to forget that my designs on your heart appear ridiculous to your papa, whose estimate of me I am aware is not in excess. For can I forget what he said that wet Saturday afternoon in the back drawing-room, when I tendered myself to him as a son-in-law, and the tender was not accepted? After telling him that it was the summit, the pinnacle of my ambition to win you as my wife, did he not answer that he considered I ought not to aspire to your hand until the statement of my pecuniary means (as he worded it) was more satisfactory, and, meanwhile, requested me to discontinue my pointed attentions? Never until you bid me. Only be firm, and the difficulties now in our way will but serve to cement us more closely together; only be true and I will wait patiently for that day which shall put the coping-stone to my happiness. I build upon every word, every look, every smile I can call to mind. You will write and assure me there is no foundation for the report of another and more fortunate competitor, but that I still fill the same niche in your affections I ever did? For, Caroline, were I to hear you were an "engaged" Tower, I could not survive the blow. I should stab myself with my compasses in the back office.

But away with such gloomy fears. Let me picture her to myself. How plumb she stands! How arch she looks! What a beam in her eye! What a graceful curve in her neck! What an exquisitely chiselled nose! What a brick of a girl altogether! I must stop in my specification, or you will think there is something wrong in my upper story, and not give credence to a word I say.

I have just been calling on your sister, and saw your little pet Poppy, who talked in her pretty Early English about "Tant Tarry." Aunt Sarah was there, staying the day, looking as mediæval as ever, and with her hair dressed in the usual Decorated style. She hinted that you were imperious, and that any man who married you must make up his mind (grim joke) to fetch and Carry at your bidding. And then you were so ambitious! The wiseacre! why, I will leave no stone unturned to get on in my profession if you will only be constant. I will be the architect of my own fortunes—your love the keystone of my prosperity. The columns of every newspaper shall record my success; every capital in Europe shall know my name. She did not unhinge me a bit, and the shafts of her ridicule fell harmless; although, she made an allusion to "dumpy" men, which I knew was levelled at me, and sneered at married life as very pretty for a time, but the stucco soon fell off. Poor Aunt Sarah! I left her sitting up quite perpendicular with that everlasting work which she is always herring-boning. And now, Carry, darling—oh, dear! I am wanted about something in our designs for the new Law Courts, and have only time to sign myself,

Your own, till Domesday, Norman.

II

From Mr. Alfred Pye, Professed Man Cook, to
Miss Martha Browning.

What a stew I was in all Friday, when no letter came from my Patty! Everything went wrong. I made a hash of one of my entrées, and the chef, who guessed the cause of my confusion, roasted me so that at last I boiled over, and gave him rather a tart answer, for, as you know, I am at times a little too peppery. Thy sweet note, when it did arrive, made all right. I believe I was quite foolish, and went capering about with delight. And then I cooled down, and composed a new soufflé. So you see I do not fritter away all my time, whatever those malicious people who are so ready to carp at me may think.

You say you always like to know where I go in an evening. Well, I went to the Trotters last night, and Fanny played the accompaniment, and I sang—how it made me think of you!—"Good-bye, Sweetbread, good-bye!" (How absurd! Do you see what I have written instead of "Sweetheart"? All the force of habit. It will remind you of that night at Cookham, when we were the top couple in the supper quadrille, and I shouted, "Now, Side-dishes, begin!" and everybody roared except a certain young lady, who looked a trifle vexed. Don't you remember that Spring? You must, because the young potatoes were so small.)

Your protégé, Peter, goes on famously. He's a broth of a boy, not a pickle, like many lads of his age, and yet he won't stand being sauced, as he calls it. He and I nearly got parted at the station, for the crowd was very great after the races—in fact, a regular jam. It rained hard when we reached Sandwich, and I got dripping wet, for I had forgotten my waterproof, and there was not a cab to be had. But now the weather has changed again, and we are half baked. A broiling sun and not a puff of wind.

There was no one in the train I knew. Some small fry stuffing buns all the way, and opposite me a girl who had her hair crimped just like yours, and wore exactly the same sort of scalloped jacket. A raw young man with her, evidently quite spooney; and they larded their talk with rather too many "loves" and "dears" for my taste, for you know we are never tender in public. It grated so on my ear, that at last I made some harmless joke to try and stop it, but mademoiselle, who spoke in that mincing way you detest, turtled up, so I held my tongue all the rest of the way, and amused myself with looking at your carte, and concocting one of my own for our great dinner on the 29th, for the chef has gone to Spithead, and left all to me. And now, my duck, not to mince matters, when I have got that off my mind (if the dinner is only as well dressed as you, it will do), you must fix the day. I am quite unsettled. I cannot concentrate my thoughts on my gravies as I ought, and my desserts are anything but meritorious. All your fault, miss. You are as slippery as an eel. I must have it all arranged when I come up to the City next week. I have some business in the Poultry, but shall slip away as soon as I can, and bring your mother the potted grouse and chutney. ("Cunning man," I hear you say, "he wants to curry favour with mamma.") And you will do what I ask? Where shall we go for our wedding trip?—Strasbourg, Turkey, Cayenne, Westphalia, Worcestershire? Perhaps, I think most of coming back to the little house which I know somebody will always keep in apple-pie order, and of covers for two; and I shall admire the pretty filbert-nails while she peels my nuts, and we will both give up our flirtations, mere entremets, and sit down soberly to enjoy that substantial pièce de résistance—Matrimony. Do you like the menu? Then, my lamb, say "yes" to

Your own

Alfred.

P.S.—I know my temper is rather short, but then think of my crust! And it speaks well for me that I would rather be roasted fifty times than buttered once. I do hate flummery, certainly.