Your parties must be "tidy," so to bring about these ends
Find some lady with a title who likes living on her friends;
Hint that you'll supply the money that's essential to the task,
If only she will condescend to tell you whom to ask.
On your former friends and relatives politely close the door,
Though they may have been of service in the days when you were poor,
Be each guest of yours a beauty, full of pride,
A tiara on her head, a co-respondent by her side.
And your friends, as they receive you to their heart,
Each to each will the opinion impart:
"She's a snob, I quite admit,
I don't like her, not a bit,
But then you know, my dear, she's smart."
OUR PORTRAIT GALLERY.
We have to announce the arrival in Bloemfontein of Mr. Burdett-Coutts, of London, of whom we have secured a portrait which we present to our readers.
CHAPTER XXVI
Wanted, a Millionaire
A number as sparkling as a string of jewels—Joke Portrait Number Two.
A singular thing about The Friend was that the readers could make sure at a glance, each afternoon, what had been the spirits of the editors earlier in the day. The issue of April 13th was positively frisky. We were all in our gayest moods, and the principal page was made to sparkle with most unlooked-for fun and flashes of wit.
Mr. Landon set out with his pen in search of an English millionaire who would supply us daily with a budget of home news cabled direct to us from London. Continually disappointed by the non-arrival of the Reuter despatches, he urged that some wealthy man should pay to have a long special cablegram sent to us daily, with a hint of all the world's happenings. "To us," did I say? no; for, as Mr. Landon expressed it, "All there is of The Friend belongs to the Army. Its existence began for the soldier, and its profits pass back to his interests. If some of the kind-hearted people in England who are so ready to put their hands in their pockets in the interests of 'The Soldiers of the Queen,' only knew what the dearth of news from England means to the men, they would at once supply the want." It is too late now. That editorial never was copied in the English papers, I suppose; but you millionaires who want to reach Heaven—and you others who want to earn handles to put before your names—remember this in the next war, and send news to your army wherever it is halted in the field.