Judge, 1890-09-13 · page 6 of 16
Judge — September 13, 1890 — page 6: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This satirical dialogue depicts an upper-middle-class couple, Mr. and Mrs. Eventide, vacationing at a seaside resort while anxious about their urban flat. The humor targets genteel anxieties about property, servants, and financial instability during what appears to be an economic downturn. Mrs. Eventide frets over household maintenance; Mr. Eventide obsessively reads newspaper personal ads and patent-medicine notices—suggesting idle, anxious preoccupation. The punchline reveals his financial ruin: he's pawned their furniture to pay a hotel head-waiter, having speculated badly and exhausted credit. The satire mocks both the couple's pretensions and the precariousness of middle-class respectability—one bad financial decision collapses their social standing. The accompanying cartoons and short items (including "The Writer is Dead," mocking rejected poetry) reinforce Judge magazine's standard targets: social climbing, financial anxiety, and literary mediocrity.
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Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
THE LAST OF re was thinking.” “That seems to be the wildest amusement here just now.” Mrs. Eventide (ignoring the implied sarcasm) — Don't you think it would be nice to go back to the city 2” ntide—“Awlully. Here's a man that wants to exchange a a baptismal font.” Eventide —* Do you suppose the things in the flat are receiving proper care Mr. Eventide (positively) —"1 happen to know that they are. | wonder if this name ‘Adi’ in the personal column is ‘Ida’ spelled backward: Mrs. Eventide —" W's getting a little cool down here now, you know.” Mr, Eventide— It isn't a marker to the city, dear—ahem !—that is —well, I mean that—by Jove! here’s a man’s portrait in the patent-medi- cine column that Mr had eaten —"It would kill me if | thought that buffalo-moths nto the blue rug. By the way, don’t you think it will be better if we take those two extra rooms in the south flat for the winter? It's crowded now, you know, when it rains and the card-parties have to all night.” Mr ide —" Here's a funny notice among the * boarders wanted.” * 303.303, Madison avenue, a pleasant sunny room for either a phys Ort tl, % Be AT THE Daracroot Roornack —" Ry ¢ . they must think I'm a dog. BOTTOM OF THE SC inder! that's th’ lowest I've fell yet THE BOARDERS. agentleman, Terms to suit.” you?” Mrs. Eventide —" No; it blew away.” Mr. Eventide (to himself) —* Thank heaven! there’s one thing that hasn't blown #7, Mrs, Eventide —" Shall we go back to the house?" Mr. Buentide—"\f you say so, By the way, Myrtle, how would you like to stay here all winter?” ‘ventide —"Here?” ‘ventide—" Ye Mrs, Eventide —* Why, Richard, are you crazy?” ventide —“ Well, I don't know what you call it, but I'm afraid that financial hydrophobia is lurking pretty closely around our doors.” Mrs. Eventide —You don’t mean to say that you've been speculat- ing again?" Mr. Eventide —* Worse than that.” Mrs, Eventide —"You haven't sold our furniture?” I've pawned it.” ‘0 faint—and at once. What horrible oe You're not sitting on the supplement, are cause was there for such utter ruin? Mr, Eventide —"A very simple one, The head-waiter demanded his fee in full last week, instead of letting me out on the installment plan.” ventide, after giving a lady-like warning, faints, and Mr. Even- non the paper again with a strong bearing on the “money to loan” column.) Lac A VOICE IN THE NIGHT. | HEARD a voice at dead of night, When the world was asleep and still. It thrilled my heart with the old delight Of boyhoou’s passionate thrill + And the ghosts of the past came back to me From haunts that I used to know ; From the land where beautiful phantoms be— Ripe ‘The land of the long ago. EN How often my eager feet made haste Tce Down the darkened stair and hall ; Tow oft o'er the lonely pavement raced ‘To answer that pleading call ! Not a woman's tone nora bird-note sweet, Nor a song nor a sigh up-borne— Tut a darkey's voice from the silent s In the old, old chant, ‘* Hot corn !" . THE WRITER IS DEAD. Contributor —“\ have brought you a poem of four stanzas, sir.” Editor (examining t)—"1 count Contributor (mystified) —" Sir?" Editor —"es; in addition to the four, you see, I notice it stanza chance of going into the waste-basket.” Judgin’ by them fellers not attack- comicbooks.com