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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 100, January 17, 1891
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 100, January 17, 1891" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.



VOL. 100.

January 17, 1891.



       *       *       *       *       *




_Well-informed Visitor_. That's Dr. KOCH, making his great discovery!


_Unscientific V._ What did _he_ discover?

_Well-inf. V._ Why, the Consumption Bacillus. He's got it in that
bottle he's holding up.

_Unsc. V._ And what's the good of it, now he _has_ discovered it?

_Well-inf. V._ Good? Why, it's the thing that causes _consumption_,
you know!

_Unsc. V._ Then it's a pity he didn't leave it alone!


_First Old Lady_ (_with Catalogue_). It says here that "the note
the page is handing _may_ have come from Sir DIGHTON PROBYN, the
Comptroller of the Royal Household" Fancy _that_!

_Second Old Lady_. He's brought it in in his fingers. Now _that_'s a
thing I never allow in _my_ house. I always tell SARAH to bring all
letters, and even circulars, in on a tray!


_A. Sportsman_. H'm--ARCHER, eh? Shouldn't have backed his mount in
_that_ race!


_Gladstonian Enthusiast_ (_to Friend, who, with the perverse
ingenuity of patrons of Wax-works, has been endeavouring to identify
the Rev. JOHN WESLEY among the Cabinet in Downing Street_). Oh,
never mind all that lot, BETSY; they're only the _Gover'ment_! Here's
dear Mr. and Mrs. GLADSTONE in this next! See, he's lookin' for
something in a drawer of his side-board--ain't that _natural_? And
only look--a lot of people have been leaving Christmas cards on him
(_a pretty and touching tribute of affection, which is eminently
characteristic of a warm-hearted Public_). I wish I'd thought o'
bringing one with me!

_Her Friend_. So do I. We might send one 'ere by post--but it'll have
to be a New Year Card now!

_A Strict Old Lady_ (_before next group_). Who are these two? "Mr.
'ENERY IRVING, and Miss ELLEN TERRY in _Faust_," eh? No--I don't care
to stop to see them--that's play-actin', that is--and I don't 'old
with it nohow! What are these two parties supposed to be doin' of over
here? What--Cardinal NEWMAN and Cardinal MANNING at the High Altar
at the Oratory, Brompton! Come along, and don't encourage Popery by
looking at such figures. I _did_ 'ear as they'd got Mrs. PEARCEY and
the prambilator somewheres. I _should_ like to see that, now.


_An Aunt_ (_who finds the excellent Catalogue a mine of useful
information_). Look, BOBBY, dear (_reading_). "Here we have
CONSTANTINE'S Cat, as seen in the '_Nights of Straparola_,' an Italian
romancist, whose book was translated into French in the year 1585--"

_Bobby_ (_disappointed_). Oh, then it _isn't_ Puss in Boots!

_A Genial Grandfather_ (_pausing before "Crusoe and Friday"_). Well,
PERCY, my boy, you know who _that_ is, at all events--eh?

_Percy_. I suppose it is STANLEY--but it's not very like.

_The G.G._ STANLEY!--Why, bless my soul, never heard of _Robinson
Crusoe_ and his man _Friday_?

_Percy_. Oh, I've _heard_ of them, of course--they come in
Pantomimes--but I like more grown-up sort of books myself, you know.
Is this girl asleep _She_?

_The G.G._ No--at least--well, I expect it's "_The Sleeping Beauty_."
You remember her, of course--all about the ball, and the glass
slipper, and her father picking a rose when the hedge grew round the
palace, eh?

_Percy_. Ah, you see, Grandfather, you had more time for general
reading than we get. (_He looks through a practicable cottage
window._) Hallo, a Dog and a Cat. Not badly stuffed!

_The G.G._ Why that must be "_Old Mother Hubbard_." (_Quoting from
memory._) "Old Mother Hubbard sat in a cupboard, eating a Christmas
pie--or a _bone_ was it?"

_Percy_. Don't know. It's not in _Selections from British Poetry_,
which we have to get up for "rep."

_The Aunt_ (_reading from Catalogue_). "The absurd ambulations of
this antique person, and the equally absurd antics of her dog, need no
recapitulation." Here's "_Jack the Giant Killer_" next. Listen, BOBBY,
to what it says about him here. (_Reads._) "It is clearly the last
transmutation of the old British legend told by GEOFFREY of Monmouth,
of CORINEUS the Trojan, the companion of the Trojan BRUTUS, when
he first settled in Britain. But more than this"--I hope you're
listening, BOBBY?--"_more_ than this, it is quite evident, even to
the superficial student of Greek mythology, that many of the main
incidents and ornaments are borrowed from the tales of HESIOD and
HOMER." Think of that, now!

    [_BOBBY thinks of it, with depression._

_The G.G._ (_before figure of Aladdin's Uncle selling new lamps for
old_). Here you are, you see! "_Ali Baba_," got 'em all here, you see.
Never read your "_Arabian Nights_," either! Is that the way they bring
up boys nowadays!

_Percy_. Well, the fact is, Grandfather, that unless a fellow
reads that kind of thing when he's _young_, he doesn't get a chance

_The Aunt_ (_still quoting_). "In the famous work," BOBBY, "by which
we know MASÛDI, he mentions the Persian Hezar Afsane-um-um-um,--nor
have commentators failed to notice that the occasion of the book
written for the Princess HOMAI resembles the story told in the Hebrew
Bible about ESTHER, her mother or grandmother, by some Persian Jew two
or three centuries B.C." Well, I never knew _that_ before!... This is
"_Sindbad and the Old Man of the Sea_"--let's see what they say about
_him_. (_Reads._) "Both the story of _Sindbad_ and the old Basque
legend of Tartaro are undoubtedly borrowed from the _Odyssey_ of
HOMER, whose _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_ were translated into Syriac in
the reign of HARUN-UR-RASHID." Dear, dear, how interesting, now!
and, BOBBY, what _do_ you think someone says about "_Jack and the
Beanstalk_"? He says--"this tale is an allegory of the Teutonic
Al-fader, the red hen representing the all-producing sun: the
moneybags, the fertilising rain; and the harp, the winds." Well, I'm
sure it seems likely enough, doesn't it?

    [_BOBBY suppresses a yawn; PERCY's feelings are outraged by
    receiving a tin trumpet from the Lucky Tub; general move to
    the scene of the Hampstead Tragedy._


_Spectators_. Dear, dear, there's the _dresser_, you see, and the
window, broken and all; it's wonderful how they can _do_ it! And
there's poor Mrs. 'OGG--it's real butter and a real loaf she's
cutting, and the poor baby, too!... Here's the actual casts taken
after they were murdered. Oh, and there's Mrs. PEARCEY wheeling
the perambulator--it's the _very_ perambulator! No, not the very
one--they've got _that_ at the other place, and the piece of toffee
the baby sucked. Have they really! Oh, we _must_ try and go there,
too, before the children's holidays are over. And this is all? Well,
well, everything very nice, I _will_ say. But a pity they couldn't get
the _real_ perambulator!

       *       *       *       *       *




  "Oh, let us not like snarling tykes,
    In wrangling be divided;
  Till slap comes in an uncoo loon
    And with a rung decide it.
  Be Britain still to Britain true,
    Among oursels united;
  For never but by British hands
    Maun British wrongs be righted!"

  ROBERT BURNS's "_Dumfries Volunteers_."

_Shade of_ BURNS, _loquitur_:--

  O, rantin' roarin' JOHNNY BURNS,
    My namesake--in a fashion,
  You do my Scots the warst o' turns
    Sae stirrin' up their passion.
  Whence come ye, JOHNNY? Frae the Docks?
    Or frae the County Council?
  Sure Scots can do their ain hard knocks;
    We take your brag and bounce ill!
            Fal de ral, &c.

  Does Cockneydom invasion threat?
    Then let the louns beware, Sir!
  Scotland, they'll find, is Scotland yet,
    And for hersel' can fare, Sir.
  The Thames shall run to join the Tweed,
    Criffel adorn Thames valley,
  'Ere wanton wrath and vulgar greed
    On Scottish ground shall rally.
            Fal de ral, &c.

  A man's a man for a' that, JOHN,
    And ane's as good as tither;
  But that ship's crew is fated, JOHN,
    That mutinies in bad weather.
  Nae flouts to "honest industry"
    Shall fa' frae the Exciseman;
  But ane who blaws up strife like this,
    Wisdom deems not a wise man.
            Fal de ral, &c.

  Scot business may be out o' tune,
    True harmony may fail in't,
  But deil a cockney tinkler loon
    We need to rant and rail in't.
  Our fathers on occasion fought,
    And so can we, if needed;
  But windy words with frenzy fraught
    Sound Scots should pass unheeded.
            Fal de ral, &c.

  Let toilers not, like snarling tykes,
    In wrangling be divided,
  Till foreign Trade, which marks our Strikes,
    Steps in, and we're derided.
  Be Scotland still to Scotland true,
    Amang oursels united;
  'Tis not by firebrands, JOHN, like you
    Our wrangs shall best be righted.
            Fal de ral, &c.

  The knave who'd crush the toilers doun,
    And him, his true-born brither,
  Who'd set the mob aboon the Crown,
    Should be kicked out together.
  Go, JOHN! Learn temperance, banish spleen!
    Scots cherish throne and steeple,
  But while we sing "_God save the Queen_,"
    _We_ won't forget the People.
            Fal de ral, &c.

       *       *       *       *       *

A LENGTHY NOVEL.--_A Thousand Lines of Her Own_, in 3000 vols., by the
Authoress of _A Line of Her Own_, in 3 vols. N.B.--What a long line
this must be to occupy three vols.! A work of and for a lifetime.

       *       *       *       *       *


_Small Stranger_ (_to Master of the house_). "OW MY! THE GENTLEMAN AS

       *       *       *       *       *


During the preparation of Sir ARTHUR SULLIVAN's new Opera, _Ivanhoe_,
a grave objection to the subject occurred to him, which was, that
one of the chief personages in the _dramatis personæ_ must be
"Gilbert"--i.e., _Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert_. True, that _Sir Brian_
is the villain of the piece, but this, to Sir ARTHUR's generous
disposition, only made matters worse. It was evident that he couldn't
change the character's name to _Sir Brian de Bois-Sullivan_, and Mr.
D'OYLEY CARTE refused to allow his name to appear in the bill except
as Lessee. "I can't put him in simply as _Sir Brian_," said the
puzzled Composer, "unless I make him an Irishman, and I don't think my
librettist will consent to take this liberty with SCOTT's novel." "But
the name in the Opera isn't pronounced the same as W.S.G.'s," objected
D'OYLEY. "It will be outside the Opera by ninety out of a hundred,"
answered Sir ARTHUR. "But," continued D'OYLEY, persistently, "it isn't
spelt the same." "No," replied Sir ARTHUR, "that's the worst of it;
there's 'u' and 'i' in it; we're both mixed up with this _Guilbert_."
Fortunately, the Composer and the Author made up their quarrel, and as
a memento of the happy termination to the temporary misunderstanding,
Sir ARTHUR, in a truly generous mood, designed to call the character
"_Sir Brian de Bois-Gilbert-and-Sullivan_." Whether the mysterious
librettist, whose name has only lately been breathed in the public
ear, insisted on SCOTT's original name being retained or not, it is
now pretty certain that there will be no departure from the great
novelist's original nomenclature.

       *       *       *       *       *

A BREACH OF VERACITY.--According to the papers, the Chief Secretary's
Lodge in Dublin is blocked with parcels of clothing designed for the
poor in the West of Ireland, sent in response to the request of Lord
ZETLAND and Mr. ARTHUR BALFOUR. We understand there is no truth in the
report, that amongst the first arrivals was a parcel containing Mr.
O'BRIEN's br--s, with a note explaining, that as he was about to go to
prison again, he had no further use for the article.

       *       *       *       *       *

NEW IRISH DRINK.--The Parnellite "Split."

       *       *       *       *       *


The excellent article in the _Times_ on the 6th inst. upon CHARLES
KEENE was worthy of its subject. The writer in the _P.M.G._ of a day
earlier performed his self-imposed task with a judicious and loving
hand, and, as far as I can judge, his account of our lamented
colleague seems to be correct. As to our CARLO's Mastership in his
Black-and-White Art, there can be but one opinion among Artists. Those
who possess the whole of the _Once a Week_ series will there find
admirable specimens of CHARLES KEENE in a more serious vein. His most
striking effects were made as if by sudden inspiration. I remember a
story which exactly illustrates my meaning. An artistic friend was in
KEENE's studio, while CARLO was at work, pipe in mouth, of course. "I
can't understand," said his friend, "how you produce that effect of
distance in so small a picture." "O--um--easy enough," replied KEENE.
"Look here,"--and--_he did it_. But when and how he gave _the_ touch
which made the effect, his friend, following his work closely, was
unable to discover. F.C.B.

       *       *       *       *       *

PARS ABOUT PICTURES.--There is always something fresh coming out at
Messrs. DOWDESWELL's Articultural Garden in Bond Street. Their latest
novelty is the result of a caravan tour from Dieppe to Nice ("Dieppend
upon it, he found it very nice!" said Young PAR, regardless of
propriety and pronunciation) by Mr. C.P. SAINTON. CHARLES COLLINS
utilised such an expedition from a literary point of view in his
inimitable "_Cruise upon Wheels_," and this young artist has
turned similar wanderings to good artistic account. His _cartes de
visite_--no, I beg pardon, his _caravans de visite_--are numerous and
varied. Verily, my brethren, all is caravanity! Not altogether, for
Mr. SAINTON, in addition to returning with his caravan and himself,
has brought back an interesting collection of original and delicate
works in oil and silver-point--in short, taken every caravantage of
his special opportunities. Yours parlously, OLD PAR.

       *       *       *       *       *

"MAY IT PLEASE YOUR 'WARSHIPS.'"--Twenty-three American ships, 118
guns, and 3,000 men; six British ships, 52 guns, 1,229 men; and seven
German ships, 42 guns, and 1,500 men--all in "Pacific" waters! Looks
like Pacific, doesn't it?

       *       *       *       *       *




    [In a long communication which accompanied the MS. of this
    novel, the Author gives a description of his literary method.
    We have only room for a few extracts. "I have been accused of
    plagiarism. I reply that the accusation is ridiculous. Nature
    is the great plagiarist, the sucker of the brains of authors.
    There is no situation, however romantic or grotesque, which
    Nature does not sooner or later appropriate. Therefore the
    more natural an author is, the more liable is he to envious
    accusations of plagiarism.... Humour may often be detected in
    an absence of leg-coverings. A naval officer is an essentially
    humorous object.... As to literary style, it can be varied
    at pleasure, but the romantic Egyptian and the plain South
    African are perhaps best. In future my motto will be, '_Ars
    Langa Rider brevis_,' and a very good motto too. I like
    writing in couples. Personally I could never have bothered
    myself to learn up all these quaint myths and literary fairy
    tales, but LANG likes it."]


[Illustration: "Then a strange thing happened."]

My name is SMALLUN HALFBOY, a curious name for an old fellow like
me, who have been battered and knocked about all over the world from
Yorkshire to South Africa. I'm not much of a hand at writing, but,
bless your heart, I know the _Bab Ballads_ by heart, and I can tell
you it's no end of a joke quoting them everywhere, especially when
you quote out of an entirely different book. I am not a brave man, but
nobody ever was a surer shot with an Express longbow, and no one ever
killed more Africans, men and elephants, than I have in my time. But
I do love blood. I love it in regular rivers all over the place, with
gashes and slashes and lopped heads and arms and legs rolling about
everywhere. Black blood is the best variety; I mean the blood of black
men, because nobody really cares twopence about them, and you can
massacre several thousands of them in half-a-dozen lines and offend no
single soul. And, after all, I am not certain that black men have any
souls, so that makes things safe all round, as someone says in the
_Bab Ballads_.


I was staying with my old friend Sir HENRY HURTUS last winter at
his ancestral home in Yorkshire. We had been shooting all day with
indifferent results, and were returning home fagged and weary with our
rifles over our shoulders. I ought to have mentioned that COODENT--of
course, you remember Captain COODENT, R.N.--was of the party. Ever
since he had found his legs so much admired by an appreciative public,
he had worn a kilt without stockings, in order to show them. This,
however, was not done from vanity, I think, but rather from a high
sense of duty, for he felt that those who happened to be born with
personal advantages ought not to be deterred by any sense of false
modesty from gratifying the reading public by their display. Lord, how
we had laughed to see him struggling through the clinging brambles
in Sir HENRY's coverts with his eye-glass in his eye and his Express
at the trail. At every step his unfortunate legs had been more and
more torn, until there was literally not a scrap of sound skin upon
them anywhere. Even the beaters, a stolid lot, had roared when old
VELVETEENS the second keeper had brought up to poor COODENT a lump of
flesh from his right leg, which he had found sticking on a thorn-bush
in the centre of the high covert. Suddenly Sir HENRY stopped and
shaded his eyes with his hand anxiously. We all imitated him, though
for my part, not being a sportsman, I had no notion what was up.
"What's the time of day, Sir HENRY?" I ventured to whisper. Sir HENRY
never looked at me, but took out his massive gold Winchester repeater
and consulted it in a low voice. "Four thirty," I heard him say, "they
are about due." Suddenly there was a whirring noise in the distance.
"Duck, duck!" shouted Sir HENRY, now thoroughly aroused. I immediately
did so, ducked right down in fact, for I did not know what might be
coming, and I am a very timid man. At that moment I heard a joint
report from Sir HENRY and COODENT. It gave on the whole a very
favourable view of the situation, and by its light I saw six fine
mallard, four teal and three widgeon come hurtling down, as dead as so
many door-nails, and much heavier on the top of my prostrate body.

When I recovered Sir HENRY was bending over me and pouring brandy down
my throat. COODENT was sitting on the ground binding up his legs. "My
dear old friend," said Sir HENRY, in his kindest tone, "this Yorkshire
is too dangerous. My mind is made up. This very night we all start for
Mariannakookaland. There at least our lives will be safe."


We were in Mariannakookaland. We had been there a month travelling
on, ever on, over the parching wastes, under the scorching African sun
which all but burnt us in our _treks_. Our _Veldt_ slippers were worn
out, and our pace was consequently reduced to the merest _Kraal_. At
rare intervals during our adventurous march, we had seen Stars and
heard of Echoes, but now not a single _Kopje_ was left, and we were
trudging along mournfully with our blistered _tongas_ protruding from
our mouths.

Suddenly Sir HENRY spoke--"SMALLUN, my old friend," he said, "do you
see anything in the distance?"

I looked intently in the direction indicated, but could see nothing
but the horizon. "Look again," said Sir HENRY. I swept the distance
with my glance. It was a sandy, arid distance, and, naturally enough,
a small cloud of dust appeared. Then a strange thing happened. The
cloud grew and grew. It came rolling towards us with an unearthly
noise. Then it seemed to be cleft in two, as by lightning,
and from its centre came marching towards us a mighty army of
Amazonian warriors, in battle-array, chanting the war-song of the
Mariannakookas. I must confess that my first instinct was to fly, my
second to run, my third, and best, to remain rooted to the spot. When
the army came within ten yards of us, it stopped, as if by magic,
and a stout Amazon, of forbidding aspect, who seemed to be the
Commander-in-Chief, advanced to the front. On her head she wore an
immense native jelibag, tricked out with feathers; her breast was
encased in a huge silver _tureene_. Her waist was encircled with
a broad girdle, in which were stuck all manner of deadly arms,
_stuhpans, sorspans, spîhts_, and _deeshecloutz_. In her left hand she
carried a deadly-looking _kaster_, while in her right she brandished a
massive _rolinpin_, a frightful weapon, which produces internal wounds
of the most awful kind. Her regiments were similarly armed, save that,
in their case, the breast-covering was made of inferior metal, and
they wore no feathers in their head-dress. The Commander held up her
hand. Instantly the war-song ceased. Then the Commander addressed
us, and her voice sounded like the song of them that address the
_butchaboys_ in the morning. And this was the _torque_ she hurled at


"Oh, wanderers from a far country, I am She-who-will-never-Obey, the
Queen of the Mariannakookas. I rule above, and in nether regions,
where there is Eternal Fire. Behold my Word goes forth, and the Ovens
are made hot, and the _Kee-chen-boi-lars_ are filled with Water. Over
me no Mistress holds sway. All whom I meet I keep in subjection, save
only the _Weeklibuks_; them I keep not down, for they delight me. And
the land over which I reign is made glad with fat and much stored
up _Dripn_. Who are ye, and what seek ye here? Speak ere it be too
late!" And as she ceased the whole army broke forth into a chorus,
"She-who-will-never-Obey has spoken! The Word is gone forth! Speak,
speak!" I confess I was alarmed, and my fears were not diminished
when two of the _Skulrimehds_ (a sort of native camp-follower) came
up to COODENT and me, and actually began to make love to us in the
most forward manner. But Sir HENRY maintained his calm demeanour.
"She-who-will-never-Obey," he said, "we are peaceful traders. We
bring no Commission--" how his sentence would have ended will never
be known. Certain it is that what he said roused the Amazons to a
frenzy of passion. They yelled and danced round us. "He who brings no
Commission must die!" they shouted; and in a moment we found ourselves
bound tightly hand-and-foot, and marching as prisoners of war in the
centre of the Mariannakookaland army.


It is unnecessary to go through the details of our marvellous escape
from the lowest dungeon of the royal Palace of SURVAN TSAUL, where for
months we were immured on a constant diet of suet pudding. Of course
we did escape, but only after killing ten thousand Mariannakookas,
and then swimming for a mile in their blood. COODENT brought with him
a very pretty _Skulrimehd_ who had grown attached to him, but she
drooped and pined away after he lost his false teeth in crossing a
river, and tried to replace them with orange-peel, a trick he had
learnt at school. Sir HENRY's fight with She-who-will-never-Obey is
still remembered. He will carry the marks of her nails on his cheeks
to his grave. I myself am tired of wandering. "_Home, Sweet Home_," as
the _Bab Ballads_ have it, is the place for me.


       *       *       *       *       *




  I went to see the Pantomime this Christmas in our town.
  We laughed enough the opening night to bring the theatre down.
  The piece was _Burleybumbo_, _the Old Giant, and his Men_;
  _Fairy Starlight, Little Popsey, and the Demon of the Glen_.
  The Supers were collected from the local talent round,
  And for _Burleybumbo's_ servant the Blacksmith, JOHN, they found;
  A stalwart varlet was required to carry off his foes
  To Burleybumbo Castle, where he ate them as he chose.
  His minions, who wore hideous masks, had nothing much to say,
  So an IRVING was not wanted to do their part of the play.
  On this eventful night the house was packed from roof to pit,
  And the Manager was jubilant at having made a hit.
  The Curtain drawing slowly up, revealed a flowery glade,
  In which the _Fairy Starlight_ and her lovely maidens played.
  The wicked Demon then came on, and round the stage did glower;
  No mortal man could e'er withstand his wrath or evil power.
  Last of all came _Burleybumbo_ with his crew, a motley horde,
  Our old friend, Blacksmith JOHN, was in attendance on his lord.
  They were singing and carousing, when a man rushed in to say
  That a dozen wealthy travellers were coming down that way.
  The band dispersed, and hid themselves, in hopes that they might plunder
  The unsuspecting wayfarers. Alas! now came the blunder:
  Old JOHN he wouldn't hide himself, but coolly walked about
  Advancing to the footlights, he looked around--but hark! a shout:--
  "Confound you! Dash my--! Just come off! Hi, you! Who are you? JOHN!"
  "Not if I knowsh it, jolly old pal! I've only just come on!"
  Thus saying, he lumbered round the stage. The Prompter's heart had sunk:
  No doubt about the matter--_Burleybumbo's_ man is drunk!
  "Come off! Come off!" from every wing was now the angry cry.
  "Me off, indeed! Oh, would yer? Sh'like to see the feller try!"
  _Burleybumbo_ then appeared, and vainly tried to drag him back.
  JOHN stove his pasteboard head in with a most refreshing crack.
  The wicked Demon now rushed on; his supernatural might
  Was very little use to him on this surprising night.
  He tried to push him down the glade, but here again JOHN sold him;
  He caught the Demon round the waist, and at the Prompter bowled him.
  Ah! such a shindy ne'er was seen, such riot and such rage--
  It was the finest "rally" ever seen on any stage!
  'Mid shrieks and cat-calls, whistles shrill, hysterics and guffaws,
  They rang the Curtain down amidst uproarious applause.
  The piece is still a great success; but, I regret to say,
  JOHN's name appears no longer in the bills of that fine play!

       *       *       *       *       *


  Fair Maiden, you're looking a vision of beauty,
  You may comfort yourself you've no rival to fear;
  But you won't take it ill if I feel it my duty
  To whisper a word of advice in your ear.

  Now, the word would be this--when the daylight is dawning,
  Or, at any rate, when it's more early than late,
  Pray remember the coachman, who, fitfully yawning
  Outside in the street, finds it weary to wait.

  You reck not at all of the hours that are fleeting,
  You ask for an "extra"--you can't be denied.
  But though, doubtless, soft nothings may set your heart beating,
  Yet they're awfully cold for the people outside.

  Want of thought, not of heart, is the reason as ever,
  So if you find leisure to read through this rhyme,
  When you order your carriage, in future endeavour
  To prevent any waiting--by being in time,

       *       *       *       *       *


The Publisher of _The Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine_, earnestly
requests the reviewer, appealing to his heart in the reddest of red
ink, on a slip of paper pasted on to the cover of the Magazine, not
to extract and quote more than one column of "Talleyrand's Memoirs,"
which appear in this number for January. The Publisher of the
_C.I.M.M._ does not appeal personally to the Baron--who is now
the last, bar one, of the Barons, and that bar one is one at the
Bar,--but, for all that, the Baron hereby and hereon takes his
solummest Half-a-Davey or his entire Davey, that he will not write,
engrave, or represent, or cause to be, &c, for purposes of quotation,
one single word, much less line, of _Tallyho_--beg pardon, of
_Talleyrand_,--extracts from whose memoirs are now appearing in the
aforesaid _C.I.M.M._ But all he will say at present is this, that,
if the secret and private Memoirs haven't got in them anything more
thrilling or startling, or out of the merest common-place, than
appears in this number of the _C.I.M.M._, then the Baron will say that
he would prefer reading such contributions as M. de BLOWITZ's story of
"How he became a Special," or _The Pigmies of the African Forest_ by
HENRY M. STANLEY in the same number of this Mag.


What the Baron dearly loves is, ELLIOT STOCK-IN-TRADE _The Book-worm_,
always most interesting to Book-worms, and almost as interesting to
Book-grubs or Book-butterflies. By the way, the publishing office of
_The Book-worm_ ought to be in Grub Street. For what sort of fish is
_The Book-worm_ an attractive bait? I suppose there are queer fish in
the Old Book trade that can take in any number of Book-worms, as is
shown from a modern instance, well and wisely commented upon in this
very number for January, No. 38, which is excellent food for worms;
the whole series, indeed, must be a very Diet of Worms. Success to
the _Book-worm_! May it grow to double the size, and be a glow-worm,
to enlighten us in the bye-paths of literature. "_Prosit!_" says the

I would that some one would write of BROWNING's work as HENRY VAN DYKE
has written of TENNYSON's. To the superficial and cursory reader of
the Laureate, the Baron, sitting by the fire on a winter's night, the
wind howling over the sea, and the snow drifting against the window,
and being chucked in handfuls down the chimney, and frizzling on the
fire, says, get this book, published by ELKIN MATHEWS: _ça donne
à penser_, and this is its great merit. "Come into the Garden,
Maud"--no, thank you, not to-night; but give me my shepherd's pipe,
with the fragrant bird's-eye in it, with [Greek: ton grogon], while I
sit by the cheerful fire, in the best of good company--my books.

all the way _From Bedford Row to Swazieland_, and has written a lively
narrative of his perilous journey. He went on a professional retainer.
You don't catch Bedford Row in Swazieland on other terms. Being there,
he kept his eyes open, saw a good deal, and describes his impressions
in racy fashion. He did not like the coffee served _en route_, and
was disappointed with the Southern Cross; but on the whole enjoyed
the trip. One would naturally expect that the price of his book would
be six-and-eight-pence, or, regarding it in the form of a letter,
three-and-fourpence, but BRADBURY, AGNEW, & Co. issue it at a


       *       *       *       *       *



_Miss Bunny_ (_triumphantly_). "YES; AND, ONLY THINK, I'VE ACTUALLY

       *       *       *       *       *


    _Seal, suddenly emerging, loquitur_:--

  Belay, you two lubbers, avast there! avast there!
    What signifies squalling and squabbling?
  You're both argufying a good bit too fast there,
    Whilst that which you stand on seems wobbling.
  You'll be in a mess, Messmates, shortly, the pair of you.
    Give _me_ a thought in the matter!
  _My_ interest's at stake, and it isn't quite fair of you
    Me to ignore 'midst your clatter.

  If 'twere not for me, Mates, this cold Behring's Sea, Mates,
    Would hardly strike you as so tempting.
  Do grant your poor prey, if I may make so free, Mates,
    From slaughter some annual exempting!
  I'm worried and walloped without intermission
    Until even family duties
  Quite fail, whilst your countrymen cudgel and fish on.
    By Jingo, some of 'em are beauties!

  My poor wife and children have not half a chance, Mates.
    That's not to your interest, I reckon.
  Cease shindy, and on a new course make advance, Mates,
    Where sense and humanity beckon.
  There's not much of either in cruelly clubbing
    My progeny all out of season;
  And if you are bent upon mutual drubbing,
    You must quite have parted with reason.

  _Mare clausum_, be blowed! That's all BLAINE's big bow-wow, Mates.
    Men can't thus monopolise oceans.
  Diplomacy _must_ find a compromise now, Mates,
    And, well--I have told you _my_ notions.
  Give me a close-time,--I shall be very grateful--
    And leave the Sea open! What more, Mates?
  For brothers like you to be huffing, is hateful.
    Be friends, think of me, and--_bong swor_, Mates!

    [_Dives under._

       *       *       *       *       *


                     | Morning | Mineral | General |Traffic and|
                     |  Fast.  |and Parl.| Express.|Even. Mail.|
Edinburgh         \  |7 A.M. to|11 A.M. A| Noon F  | 9 P.M. L  |
(Waverley Station)/  |  9.30   |         |         |           |
Carlisle             | 12.15   |   ...   |   ...   |    ...    |
Hawick               | 4.30    |    B    |   ...   |    ...    |
Galashiels           | 9.45    |   ...   | 2.15 G  | 1 A.M. M  |
              /      | 1 P.M.  |         |         |           |
Motherwell   <       |(Stopped | 4 P.M. C| 3.19 H  |  3.20 N   |
              \      |by riot) |         |         |           |
St. Margaret's Works | 3.30    |  5 D    |   ...   |    ...    |
Perth                |9.45 A.M.|   ...   | 11.26 I |    ...    |
Glasgow              |12.30P.M.|   ...   |   ...   |    ...    |
Aberfeldy            | 6.13    |   ...   |   ...   |    ...    |
Dundee               |1.12 A.M.|3A.M.to 9|   ...   |    ...    |
Inverness            | 9.23    |   ...   |  3.5 J  |    ...    |
Aberdeen             | 11.6    |7 P.M.? E|1 A.M. K |     O     |

A--Takes delayed pig-iron and third-class passengers. B--Half of
train stops here through breaking an axle-pin. C--Passengers, for
protection, get under seats of carriages. D--Stops for repairs.
E--Having had a collision at the junction for Aberfeldy, will come on,
if there are any passengers equal to finishing the journey.

F--Starts under the management of a Director, and, owing to a
misunderstanding, dashes off to Aberdeen, without stopping. G--Doesn't
stop, but knocks over a station-master. H--Is pelted as it tears
through the station by _ex-employés_. I--Knocks over another
station-master. J--Meets a pilot-engine, which it splits in half.
K--Goes at full speed through the end of the terminus, depositing the
passengers in a heap in the middle of the town.

L--Train starts, made up of horse-boxes and luggage-vans full of three
weeks' arrears of parcels, first-class carriages, Post-office van,
fifty coal-trucks, and a wild beast show, the Directors wishing
to make up for lost time. M--Train breaking down here, mail and
passengers only forwarded. N--Train attacked by rioters. Pitched
battle with the passengers. O--Telegram from Motherwell saying, that
owing to police intervention, train starts the day after to-morrow.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ARBITRATION.


       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SHOCKING!

_Fair New-Englander_ (_spending the Winter in the Old Country_). "OH,

       *       *       *       *       *



    ACT I.--"PAST."--_Interior of the Savings Bank Department of
    the G.P.O. Employés engaged upon their work. The hour for
    customary cessation of labour strikes._

_Official of a Higher Grade_. Officers and Gentlemen, the exigencies
of the Public Service require your presence for some time longer. I
beg you to continue your work.

_A Hundred Employés_. Never! (_Aside._) Ha! ha! the employment of
Female Clerks is avenged!

_Off._ (_almost in tears_). Reconsider your decision, I beg--I

_Another Hundred Employés_. Never! (_Aside._) Seven hours a day and no
longer--shall be secured at one fell swoop!

_Off._ (_with indescribable emotion_). Oh, my country! Oh, my Savings
Bank Depositors! Oh, my dignity of the Civil Service!

    [_Faints in the arms of faithful Employés, whilst the other
    Clerks defiantly depart. Tableau._

    ACT II.--"PRESENT."--_Magnificent apartments of the
    P.-M.-Gen. in the G.P.O. Deputation of contrite Employés
    listening to the eloquent speech of their Official Chief._

_P.M.G._ (_in effect_). I am delighted that you are such good fellows.
Your conduct in owning that you were wrong in refusing to work after
regular official hours, almost effaces a painful page in the history
of St. Martin's-le-Grand. Let it be clearly understood that extra work
is _not_ compulsory, _but_, if _not_ undertaken, may lead (as in the
present instance) to immediate suspension, if not dismissal. Surely
no one can object to that? (_Contrite Officials express mournful
approval._) And now good-bye, and A Happy New Year. As for the
future--hope, my good friends, hope!

    [_Exeunt the contrite Employés, leaving the Officials of a
    Higher Grade agitating the nerves controlling their eyelids

    ACT III.--"FUTURE."--_Same Scene as Act I. Venerable Employés
    discovered, after twenty years' further service._

_First Venerable Employé_. Remember the words spoken a score of
winters ago--Hope, brother, hope!

_Second Venerable Employé_. Yes--Hope, brother, hope!

    [_As the Scene closes, the entire Establishment are left
    continuing the self-sustaining, but rather profitless
    employment, indefinitely. Curtain._

       *       *       *       *       *

_A Son of the Pool_. By the Author of _A Daughter of the Pyramids_.

       *       *       *       *       *


BORN AUGUST 10, 1823. DIED JANUARY 4, 1891.

  What words avail to honour friends departed,
    Gone from the gatherings which so long they graced?
  What phrase seems fit when comrades loyal-hearted
    Mourn a loved presence late by death displaced?

  No formal elegiacs fashioned coldly,
    Beseem the memory of that manly soul,
  Whose simple, downright spirit trod so boldly
    Life's most sequestered ways from start to goal.

  Not rank's trim pleasaunce, nor parades of fashion
    Tempted his genius; his the great highway
  Where, free from courtly pride and modish passion,
    Toil tramps, free humours crowd, rough wastrels stray.

  Therein his magic pencil laboured gladly,
    Fixing for ever on his chosen page
  In forms fond memory now reviews so sadly
    The crowded pageant of a passing age.

  What an array! How varied a procession!
    The humours of the parlour, shop, and street;
  Philistia's every calling, craft, profession,
    Cockneydom's cheery cheek and patter fleet.

  Scotch dryness, Irish unction and cajolery,
    Waiterdom's wiles, Deacondom's pomp of port;
  Rustic simplicity, domestic drollery,
    The freaks of Service and the fun of Sport;

  And all with such true art, so fine, unfailing,
    Of touch so certain, and of charm so fresh,
  As to lend dignity to Cabmen railing,
    To fustianed clods and fogies full of flesh.

  Nor human humours only; who so tender
    Of touch when sunny Nature out-of-doors
  Wooed his deft pencil? Who like him could render
    Meadow or hedgerow, turnip-field, or moor?

  Snowy perspective, long suburban winding
    Of bowery road-way, villa-edged and trim.
  Iron-railed city street, where gas-lamps blinding
    Glare through the foggy distance dense and dim?

  All with that broad free force, whose fascination
    All felt, and artists most, that dexterous sleight
  Which gave our land the unchallenged consummation
    Of graphic mastery in Black-and-White.

  Pleasant to dwell on, and a proud possession,
    Now the tired hand that shaped that world is still,
  Leaving an ineffaceable impression
    Upon the age that fired its force and skill.

  Honoured abroad as loved at home, how ample,
    The tribute to that modest spirit paid!
  To pushing quackery a high example,
    A calm rebuke to egotist parade!

  Frank, loyal, unobtrusive, simple-hearted,
    Loving his book, his pipe, his song, his friend,
  Peaceful he lived and peacefully departed,
    A gentle life-course, with a gracious end.

  Irreparable loss to Art, deep sorrow
    To those his comrades, who so loved the man,
  And who had hoped for many a sunny morrow
    To greet that gallant spirit in the van.

  That tall, spare form, that curl-crowned head, the knitting
    Of supple hands behind it as he sat,
  That quaint face-wrinkling smile like sunshine flitting,
    The droll, dry comment, the quotation pat;

  The small oft-loaded pipe, of ancient moulding,
    The brazen box that held the well-loved weed;
  Who shall forget who once was graced by holding
    In friendship's clasp the hand now still indeed?

  Farewell, great artist, comrade staunch and loyal!
    Few simpler lives our feverish age hath seen.
  Could pomp high-pinnacled, or trappings royal,
    Add honour to the memory of CHARLES KEENE?

       *       *       *       *       *


_Where the Home-Ruler of Butt's time awakes to find all the would-be
dic-taters suddenly become mere mushrooms._]

       *       *       *       *       *



Over a series of weeks preceding Christmas, Europe was disturbed by
rumours of a momentous interview reported to have taken place on
the banks of the unsuspecting Bosphorus. One of the parties to the
conference was his Imperial Majesty the SULTAN. The other was an
English Statesman, the trusted counsellor of an Ex-Premier, and
believed in family circles to be the real author of some of his
supreme measures. The naturally retiring disposition of the Statesman
in question, and his inviolable reticence in respect of any matter
concerning himself, made it difficult to arrive at the truth.
Doubtless the stupendous event--the possible consequences of which
on European affairs Time will work out--would have remained for ever
hidden but for the ruthless action of "the London Correspondents of
various provincial papers, who gave in their London letters more or
less inaccurate reports of the event." How they came to know anything
about it admits of only one conclusion. _The SULTAN must have told
them_. The event was too important to be left to this haphazard kind
of record, and, accordingly, the _Speaker_ has been favoured with a
narrative of what took place, the signature disclosing the fact that
the other party to the interview was the SHAH LEFEVRE.

The SHAH's account, regarded as a record of a historical event,
is manifestly hampered by that modest and insatiable desire for
self-effacement which marks this eminent man. We see anonymous
"persons who had access to the SULTAN approaching" the SHAH, and
"suggesting to him that he ought to apply for an audience." We see him
"declining to do so on the ground that, having taken an active part in
the agitation in England on the subject of the Bulgarian atrocities
in 1877, it would not be right that I should thrust myself on the
attention of the SULTAN." It is generally thought at Stamboul and
elsewhere that Mr. GLADSTONE was chiefly responsible for the memorable
agitation referred to. But the SHAH is not the man to hide the truth.
Also, "I wished to be free to say what I thought about the condition
of Turkey on my return to England." That was only fair to waiting
England. No use the SULTAN trying to "nobble" this relentless man. So
it came to pass that he went to the Palace, reluctant, but "feeling we
could not refuse such a command from the Sovereign of the country."
He talked with CHAKIR PACHA and WAHAN EFFENDI; saw the SULTAN's horse;
hung about for hours; no SULTAN appeared; went back to hotel quivering
under the insult. Had framed telegram ordering the British Fleet to
the Bosphorus, when VAMBÉRY turned up, pale and trembling; besought
the SHAH to do nothing rash; explained it was all a mistake. This
followed up by invitation to dine at the Palace the following day.

All this, and what followed at the dinner; how there were "excellent
wines, electric lights, and a great display of plate"; how the
SULTAN, concentrating his attention on the SHAH, and forgetful of poor
FREDERICK HARRISON, who had, somehow, been elbowed into obscurity,
paid court to this powerful personality; how he received him on the
daïs, and now cunningly, though ineffectually, he endeavoured to
secure on the spot the evacuation of Egypt, is told in the SHAH'S
delicious narrative.

_Mr. Punch_, sharing in the thrilling interest this disclosure has
created throughout the civilised world, has been anxious to complete
the record by supplementing the SHAH's account of the interview,
with the SULTAN's own version. This was, at the outset, difficult.
Obstacles were thrown in the way, but they were overcome by the
pertinacity and ingenuity of Our Representative, who at last found
himself seated with the SULTAN on the very daïs from which SHAH
LEFEVRE had conferred with his Imperial Majesty whilst other of the
forty guests, "including the Austrian Ambassador," looked on, green
with envy.

"It's a curious thing," said the SULTAN, laying down a book he had
been reading when Our Representative entered, "that, when you were
announced, I had just come upon a reference by your great Poet to your
still greater Statesman. You know the line in Lockandkey Hall,--

  "'Oh the dreary, drear LEFEVRE! Oh the barren, barren SHAW!'"

"That," Our Representative writes, "is not precisely the line as I
remember it; but I make it a rule never to correct a SULTAN."

Accordingly His Majesty proceeded: "And so, my good Cousin, _Mr.
Punch_, wants to know all about this interview, the _bruit_ of which
has shaken the Universe. His wishes are commands to me. In the first
place, I will tell you (though this is not for publication), that it
was by the merest accident I had the advantage of knowing your great
countryman. I heard there had come to Constantinople one FREDERICK
HARRISON, head of a sect called the Positivists. I am, you know, in
my way, and within the limits of my kingdom, one of the most absolute
Positivists of the age. I wanted to see the English apostle, and told
them to ask him to dinner. Somehow things got mixed up, and, at the
preliminary morning call, the SHAH LEFEVRE walked in. Had never heard
of him before, but gathered from CHAKIR PACHA, who had been talking to
WAHAN EFFENDI, who, had seen WOODS PACHA, who had spent an hour with
VAMBÉRY, upon whom SHAH LEFEVRE had called, that the SHAH was really
the mainspring of the Liberal Party in England, GLADSTONE being merely
figure-head, HARCOURT in his pay, and CHAMBERLAIN suffering in exile
under his displeasure. Allah is Good! Here was a chance thrown into
my hands. I forgot all about FREDERICK HARRISON; told CHAKIR PACHA and
WAHAN EFFENDI to entertain the SHAH in the ante-chamber with coffee
and cigarettes, drawing him out on Armenia and Egypt. Meanwhile I
crept under the sofa, and heard every word. The SHAH very stern about
Armenia, could not be drawn about Egypt. At end of hour and half
began to get tired under sofa; managed to stick in WAHAN EFFENDI's
Wellington boot a note, on which I had written, 'Take him to see my
horse.' So they went off to stable, and, as soon as coast was clear,
I crept out; shut myself up in room for rest of day. Heard afterwards
that they came back, the SHAH much impressed with appearance of my
horse; resumed conversation on Armenia and Egypt for another hour; at
last got rid of SHAH.

"At night VAMBÉRY, disguised as melon-seller, entered Palace and
gained access to my room. Told me fearful mess had been made of
matters. The SHAH really didn't care about seeing the horse; wanted
to see me. Talks about ordering round the Fleet. 'Better ask him to
dinner,' said VAMBÉRY; so despatched Grand Chamberlain in carriage and
six. The SHAH mollified; gave him a good dinner: plenty of electric
lights. Afterwards he was good enough to see me on the daïs. Tried
to get him to promise alteration in attitude of English Liberal Party
towards me; also wanted him to settle at once withdrawal of troops
from Egypt, But, though most urbane in manner, exceedingly cautious.
Not to be drawn. Talk about Eastern statecraft! nothing to you
English, as represented by jour SHAH LEFEVRES. When I pressed him
to come to point about Egypt, he said, 'On this subject I can only
speak my own views. I am not authorised to speak on behalf of those
I am politically associated with, but personally I am opposed to the
occupation of Egypt by English troops.' There's an answer for you!
Your MACHIAVELLIS, your TALLEYRANDS not in it. Felt I had wasted some
time, and given away a dinner all for nothing, except the memory
that will ever rest with me of having been privileged to see this
remarkable man standing on my daïs."

Here the SULTAN clapped his hands three times, and Our Representative,
being carefully placed in a sack, was dropped into the Bosphorus,
whence he was rescued in time to send off this despatch for
publication in the current Number.

       *       *       *       *       *

ACCIDENT ON THE ICE.--The other day a gentleman, well known in the
world of Sport and Art, was skating on the Serpentine, and fell in
with a friend. Both were getting on well when our reporter left.

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: _G.O.M._ (_to himself_). "I hope Lawson isn't looking
at me."]

"And I do not hesitate to betray to you this secret, that not
infrequently in the summer months, when winding my way homewards after
midnight, sometimes very long after it, from the House of Commons,
I have stopped my course for a moment by the side of the drinking
fountain in Great George Street, Westminster, when there was nobody
to look at me, and have indulged in the refreshing draught which was
there afforded me, feeling at the same time that I was not performing
any action which could expose me to the resentment or displeasure of
my excellent friend whose name is well known to you all--Sir WILFRID

       *       *       *       *       *




  I'd be a criminal, born in a slum,
    Where refuse, and rowdies, and raggedness meet;
  For when to the court for my trial I come,
    I'll be gazed on by all that is gracious and sweet.

  Fair dames of the land will acknowledge my power,
    And Scientists sage will be slaves at my feet;
  Offers of marriage I'll get in full shower,
    And fools in my cause in their thousands will meet.

  They'll trot out each new "scientific" vagary,
    Some hope of escape to my prison to bring,
  And scribes on my case will be sportive and airy
    And tell how I look, eat, sleep, dress, talk or sing.

  Those I have butchered will get scant attention,
    Interest's sure to be centred in me.
  Painters will picture me, poets may mention,
    Beauties discuss me at five o'clock tea.

  Mad doctors will fight o'er my mental condition,
    Hypnotists swear I was somebody's tool;
  And if I'm condemned, why a Monster Petition
    Will promptly be signed by each faddist and fool.

  Murder--and good Dr. LIÈGOIS of Nancy
    Will back you, LABRUYÈRE will help you away.
  I'd be a Murderer, that is my fancy,
    He is the only true Hero to-day!

       *       *       *       *       *



_The Strike in Scotland_.--You might suggest, that were it in Ireland,
one might see a _rail_ way out of it, or rather in it. This jest may
be expected to be appreciated by a parson's wife of the sharper sort.
Something ought to be got out of the visit of the agitator BURNS to
the North. Example of what can be done in this direction:--"People
who play with fire (persons who go in for strikes) must expect BURNS."
However, be careful not to say this to a Scotchman, or he may want
your blood before you get to the cigarettes. North Britons are very
jealous of the reputation of their national poet, and permit no
jokes upon the subject. You see, in letting off your witticism at
a Scotchman, you would have to explain that it _was_ a joke. You
might also hint that it was "hard lines" for the Railway Companies
concerned; but this will provoke gloom rather than gaiety amongst
those who have invested in Caledonians and North British. If you talk
about the riots in connection with the movement, you might say that
the pugnacious rioters remind you of safety matches, "for they not
only strike, but strike on the box!"

_The Parnell Negociations in France_.--You can say something about
O'BRIEN's invitation to Mr. PARNELL to pay him an evening visit on
the French coast, reminds you of the once popular song, "_Meet me
by Moonlight, Boulogne_." If you are told that "Boulogne" should be
"Alone," return, "Precisely--borrowed a word--Boulogne was a loan."
This ought to go with roars. At a Smoking Concert you might suggest
that Mr. O'BRIEN was just the man to settle a quarrel, because even
when he was in prison he took an absorbing interest in _the proper
adjustment of breeches_!

_The Row at the Post Office_.--As the Savings' Bank Department has for
years been the Cinderella of the Civil Service, this is a subject that
will not create much interest; however, you might possibly extract
a pleasantry out of the name of the present Postmaster-General in
connection with the now-appeased _employés_. With a little trouble
you should be able to say something quite sparkling about what the
"officers" _hoe_ to _Raikes_!

_The Portuguese Difficulty in Africa_.--Rather a good subject at
a Christmas Dinner, where relatives (on particularly affectionate
and intimate terms) are gathered together. Say you have got to the
dessert, and you start the subject. Observe that it is fortunate that
the SULTAN OF TURKEY is not interested in the matter, or there would
be further trouble of a like character. To the question, "Why?" reply,
taking up a bottle of red wine to point your witticism, "would it not
be a second difficulty with the _Porte, you geese_?" To make the jest
perfect, connect Turkey in Europe with the _dindon aux marrons_, of
which you will have just partaken.

_The Weather_.--If forced to fall back upon this venerable subject
(which should only be broached in the wilds of Cornwall, or other
equally primitive spots), of course you can speak of a hard frost
being "_an ice_ day for a hunting-man, although he is sure to swear at
it." If the weather breaks, you may observe, "_You thaw so_," but not
when you have to shout the quibble through the ear-trumpet of a deaf
old maid. And this, with the other witticisms recorded above, should
carry you (by desire) into the middle of next week.

       *       *       *       *       *

A DEADLY KISS.--The Hotch-kiss.

       *       *       *       *       *




  Tax-gatherers molest one's door,
    The streets are choked with messy mist;
  I'm the proverbial Bachelor,
    An old, prosaic Pessimist.
  Yet somehow--who can tell me why?--
    Urged by the Past's dim Phantom, I'm
  Disposed my cosy Club to fly,
    And prank it at the Pantomime.

  A Phantom weird of things forgot!
    My mother, proud of me at her
  Sweet side--our yellow chariot--
    The long, long drive--the theatre--
  My fear to miss--my thrill when in--
    The Fairy Queen, the jolly King--
  The laughter flung at Harlequin,
    And Pantaloon arollicking.

  And sister PRUE, and brother TIM,
    (I scarcely recollected them),
  Magnificent in gala trim:
    Dear me, how I respected them!
  I deemed them quite grown up, so bold
    Seemed they, glared so defiantly:
  Yet they, too, cowered to behold
    Prone before JACK the Giant lie.

  Yes! Where is TIM, where PRUE, alack!
    Where mother fondly pliant now?
  Where for that matter too is JACK,
    And where the grisly Giant now?
  In lonely stall, with vacant brow
    I sit and eye the _coryphées_:
  In my time they were Fairies; now
    They seem to me but sorry fays.

  The pageantry is twice as grand,
    The wealth of wealth embarrasses;
  And yet this is not elfinland
    But great AUGUSTUS HARRIS's.
  The _blasé_ children vote it flat,
    When Mister Clown cries, "Here's a go!"
  Yes, there's the box where erst we sat
    And laughed so, sixty years ago.

  The very box: I think, you know,
    The reason I'm so queer to-night
  Is merely because long ago
    Here faces were not here to-night.
  I'd best be off--Bless me! no Clown?
    No Stage?--no Past invidious?
  No Orchestra?--but simply BROWN
    Snoring the midnight hideous!

  No Drury Lane?--no tinsel flare?--
    No pirouetting Bogeydom?--
  Only a Club, and one who there
    Forgot in sleep his Fogeydom!
  Welcome my Transformation Scene;
    I'm dull once more, and every
  Old Bachelor like me, I ween,
    May muse at times his reverie.

       *       *       *       *       *

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