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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 101, December 19, 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 101, December 19, 1891" ***

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VOL. 101.

December 19, 1891.


[Illustration: King Cracker the Millionth, of the Bonbon Dynasty.]

The Baron's Assistants say that of the Christmas works published by
Messrs. HUTCHINSON & CO. they can and do recommend _The Children of
Wilton Chase_ by L.J. MEAD, to which they accord their mead of praise,
which likewise they bestow on FLORENCE MARRYAT's _The Little Marine
and the Japanese Lily_, a book of adventures in the land of the Rising
Sun, which will delight many rising sons for whom chiefly was this
book intended. There are always "more ways than one," and so _Where
Two Ways Meet_ there is like to be a puzzle, solved in this instance
by the authoress, SARAH DOUDNEY. Put down the books! Come to the
festive board! Down--(the right way of course) with the mince-pie and
plum-pudding! Strange is it that the source of so much enjoyment, the
very types of Christmas good cheer, should themselves be so "down in
the mouth" as invariably are Mathew Mince-pie and Peter Plum-pudding
at this festive season. And they being gone and cleared off, enter a
gentleman bearing the unusual and remarkable name of SMITH--familiarly
welcomed as "TOM" of that ilk--and then pop go the crackers! "But
we must keep the secret," whisper the Baron's Assistants, and they
strongly advise everyone not to peep into this _boîte à surprise_
until Christmas Day itself. So, for SPARAGNAPANE's "charming
confections, which," as the Baron's young lady clerks, BLYTHE and GAY,
observe, "are in the very highest style of 'High Art'; and the same
Mr. SPARE-NA-PAIN's _Darkest Evening, and How to Get Out of It_, will
be tidings of comfort and joy to many a holiday-making household."


       *       *       *       *       *



Sorry, indeed, are all London lovers of music at the sudden departure
from our midst and mist of _Cavalleria Rusticana_, the Rustic
Cavalier. It is no comfort to us to be told that the Rustic Cavalier
will go into the provinces and appeal to the country. His province at
present should have been to remain in London, where, with nothing to
speak of in the way of _mise-en-scène_, he--that is, his composer,
PIETRO MASCAGNI--has made a decided hit. Wise was our Signor LAGO "_al
factotum_" in producing this, and knowing, too, must he be in his
use of Windsor soap to have so speedily "taken the cake." Nay more,
did not HER GRACIOUS MAJESTY absolutely retain a Royal Box at the
Shaftesbury up to the last night of the run of this one-Act Opera?
"_Ah, bravo, Figaro, bravissimo! Fortunatissimo_!" What a treat,
too, to hear again the "_Che faro_." which brought down the Curtain,
and brought down the House, on this termination to GLUCK's _Orfeo_.
Strong, indeed, must be the _Cavalleria_ to be successful after the
_Che taro_: but it was.

The Overture, the solo sung, by way of novelty, behind the Curtain, by
TURIDDU,--(what a name! like the commencement of a comic nonsensical
chorus! TURIDDU ought to have been in love with Tulla Lieti and have
behaved badly to Tralala. "But this is another story.")--the choruses,
and most of the concerted pieces are charming; and, above all, the
_intermezzo_, which, were the piece in two Acts, would he the overture
to the Second Act is simply so fascinating, that without a dissentient
voice from a full house it was warmly and heartily encored, and would
have been called for a third time had the judicious Signor ARDITI
shown the slightest sign of conceding a supply to a fresh demand. None
of the solos, except the one sung behind the Curtain, are particularly
catching, or dramatically effective. Mlle. ELANDI, as _Santuzza_, acts
and sings well; and Signor BERTINI, with a good voice, is about as
stiff in action as a rustic Cavalier would naturally be; while Signor
BROMBARA's _Alfio_ the Mule-driver is histrionically just about
perfect. Of course it will not he long ere we hear it again, and under
vastly improved conditions.

       *       *       *       *       *



Last Thursday the Fishmongers gave a banquet in their hall to the
Duke of BEAUFORT and other Masters of Hounds. But why should the
Fishmongers thus publicly advertise themselves as "going to the dogs."
What fishly a-fin-ity is there between hounds and herrings, except in
the running of a drag? However, the Lord MAYOR improved the occasion,
which we dare say judging from the liberal hospitality, or, in this
instance hoss-pitality, of the Fishmongering Corporation, scarcely
required improvement, to inform His Grace of BEAUFORT and other noble
sportsmen that he too was a hunting man, and that Lord Mayors of
London ought as a rule to he hunting men if they would keep up the
ancient traditions of their office. Why doesn't his sporting and
equestrian Lordship revive the "Lord Mayor's Hounds" of the time of
GEORGE THE FIRST? The meet might be in Leadenhall Market, or in a
still meater place, Smithfield, and a bag fox being turned out, they
might, on a good scenting day, have a fine burst of a good forty
minutes, taking Houndsditch in their stride away across Goodman's
Fields then away across Bethnal Green, tally-hoing down Cambridge
Road, and then with a merry burst, into Commercial Road East, gaily
along Radcliff Highway, and running into sly Reynard in Limehouse
Basin. Stepney! Yoicks! On hunting days there would be a placard on
the Mansion House door with the words, "Gone Away!" And of course
there would be a list of the meets appended to all the usual notices.
Let the present Lord MAYOR start this, and his Mayoralty will indeed
be a memorable one.

       *       *       *       *       *


    [Mr. ERNEST HART said, in a recent Lecture, that snakes,
    frogs, and lobsters could be hypnotised like human beings.]

  'Tis the voice of the Lobster, I hear him complain,
  That hypnotic suggestion is on me again;
  I was mesmerised once and behold, since that time,
  I have yielded myself to suggestions of crime:
  I have compassed the death of an innocent "dab,"
  And attempted to poison an elderly crab.

  You'll not wonder my tricks give my relatives shocks,
  And they're holding a meeting just now in the rocks
  To decide whether I, who was once quite a saint,
  Should be put, as the doctors say, under restraint.
  I intend to go there in the midst of a trance.
  And, may I be boiled, but I'll lead them a dance!

  It's a terrible thing, when to virtue inclined.
  That some vile Mesmeriser debauches your mind;
  When awake I recoil from the things that I've done,
  Such as scrunching the poor little mussels for fun.
  In these fetters hypnotic a foe holds me fast,
  And you'll find that they'll hang me, in seaweed, at last.

       *       *       *       *       *



Last Friday there appeared a startling paragraph, announcing the first
appearance of a New Island. Appropriately, it was on the face of _The
Globe_. The intelligence came to us _viâ_ Marseilles. Did it come
up to the surface ready furnished for occupation, as in our second
National Anthem about "Britons never being slaves" Britain is
described as doing? The quotation is:--"When Britain first at Heaven's
command, Arose from out the azure main," (or words to that effect),
She (the Island) came up with a ready-made charter, and was open to be
taken furnished. If this is the case, with the new Island, the sooner
some parties "who won't be missed" pack off, bag and baggage, and take
possession of the property, the better. It's a chance. "Island to Let.
Ready furnished. Quite ready for occupation when thoroughly dry. No
Agents need apply. Ground-Swell Landlord, Neptune, C. district."

       *       *       *       *       *




  And thou shalt sit at ease, and mock
  The Tory Shepherds of the flock,
  The Squire and Parson, o'er whose fall
  The Primrose Dames already squall.

  And I will give thee cots most cosy,
  Of structure sound and aspect rosy;
  True homes, salubrious if not garish,
  And proper influence in the parish.

  One-Man-one-Vote, the Ballot, School,
  And rating on a fairer rule;
  A Charity less harsh and cold
  To warm thine heart when thou grow'st old.

  A chance upon the land to dwell,
  Free, independent, faring well;
  And if these pleasures may thee move,
  Come live with me, and be _my_ love!

  Though Tory Swains thy vote may crave
  To keep thee still the Landlord's slave,
  If freedom's joys thy mind may move,
  Come live with _me_ and be _my_ love!


(_Some way after Sir Walter Raleigh._)

  If I were sure 'twere sooth thou'st sung,
  That truth were on thy silvery tongue;
  These pleasures must my passion move
  To live with thee and be thy love.

  But art _thou_ sure the Allotted Field
  A present paradise will yield,
  Making a lady of a thrall,
  As dreamed at the Memorial Hall?

  Thy Village Council, Cottage cosy,
  Present in sooth a prospect rosy,
  But promises so oft are rotten;
  I've oft been wooed--and oft forgotten!

  Free vote, fair rating, open school,
  Good wage, intelligent self-rule,--
  These are enticements me would move
  To live with thee and be thy love.

  If thy zeal last, if love, indeed,
  Fire thee my hapless lot to heed;
  Then such delights my mind shall move
  To live with thee and be thy love.

       *       *       *       *       *

A LOST OPPORTUNITY.--During a recent _cause célèbre_ in the Divorce
Court the petitioner was asked by Sir CHARLES RUSSELL, Q.C., M.P.,
P.T.P.C., "Did he do anything?" to which the reply was, "He took up
a salt-cellar and threw the contents in my face." Mr. FRANK LOCKWOOD,
Q.C., M.P., V.P.T.P.C. has been lamenting ever since that he could
not have appeared as _amicus curiæ_ to point out that this testimony,
until flatly contradicted, "must be taken as _primâ facie_ evidence of
_a salting her_."

       *       *       *       *       *



    One, two, crimson and blue;
    Two, three, treaclyness free;
    Three, four, gilding galore;
    Four, five, bogies alive;
    Five, six, spectres from Styx;
    Six, seven, angels from heaven;
    Seven, eight, big "extra plate";
    Eight, nine, wassail and wine;
    Nine, ten, pencil and pen;
    Ten, eleven, commercial leaven;
    Eleven, twelve, "high-art" shelve;
  Thirteen, fourteen, pictures of sporting;
  Fifteen, sixteen, ghost-stories, fixt een;
  Seventeen, eighteen, advertisements great in;
  Nineteen, twenty, profit in plenty!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "WHEN A MAN DOES NOT LOOK HIS BEST."--NO. 5.


       *       *       *       *       *


    SCENE--_Interior of a Publisher's Office, shortly after the
    trial of Pinnock v. Chapman and Hall._

_Publisher_. We have given our best attention to your Manuscript of
a three-volumed novel, called--let me see, what did you call it? Oh,
yes, here it is!--called, _Haunted by Sixteen Goblins_, and we are
afraid it won't do.

_Literary Aspirant_ (_pained_). Won't _do_!

_Pub._ (_calmly_). No. Won't do a bit--at least, not in its present
form. You see, you introduce a Pirate Chief, named Captain WILDFIRE,
who lives at Singapore, and who murders the mate, the steward, five
seamen, and all the Passengers of the _Jolly Seamew_, the vessel that
he commands, and appropriates five million dollars belonging to his
employers, the vessel's owners.

_Lit. Asp._ Quite so. I thought those incidents would be rather
exciting. They're so new. Do you object to the murders, or what?

_Pub._ Oh, dear no! But now this name, Captain WILDFIRE.
(_Suspiciously._) Are you sure there is nobody whose name is at all
like it, and who also resides at Singapore?

_Lit. Asp._ I took the name quite by chance. I've never been near
Singapore in my life.

_Pub._ (_relieved_). Glad to hear it. One has to be so careful
nowadays. Here's an Army List--let us see if anybody called WILDFIRE
figures in it. Ha! What's this! "Major WILDMAN, 217th Hussars."
(_Gazes at Lit. Aspirant sternly._) Is your Captain WILDFIRE
intended as a caricature of Major WILDMAN, Sir, or is it not?

_Lit. Asp._ (_astonished_). Why, of course not! I never heard of the

_Pub._ Very likely not. _We_ should hear of him precious soon if we
published your novel as it stands.

_Lit. Asp._ But what reason is there to suppose this Major WILDMAN has
ever been to Singapore? And how can a captain of a merchantship like
the _Jolly Seamew_ be confused with a Major in the Army who has never
commanded a vessel in his life?

_Pub._ (_doggedly_). All very well; but the name must come out. Then
I don't like this description of the Ninth Goblin at all. Where is it?
Oh, here! (_Reads._) "Even the cerements of the tomb enveloping the
form of the Ninth Goblin could not hide--nay, seemed rather to bring
prominently forward--the malignant expression of the one-eyed
face, with its crop of red whiskers, beetle brows, and low receding

_Lit. Asp._ What's wrong with _that_?

_Pub._ Wrong! Everything's wrong! There are lots of people about with
red whiskers and low receding foreheads, and they'll all bring actions
of libel.

_Lit. Asp._ But _my_ Goblin has only one eye.

_Pub._ Well, so may they. They're equal to taking one eye out and
putting it back when the trial's over, if they thought it'd help them
to get money out of _us_. There may be a fellow called Mr. GOBLIN
somewhere, too. Oh, no; it won't do at all. All the chapters with the
Ninth Goblin in must come out.

_Lit. Asp._ (_aghast_). But that would spoil the book--it would mean
leaving out half of it.

_Pub._ Yes, it would reduce the bulk, no doubt. In any case we could
not produce it in a three-volume form. But we are bringing out a
series of cheap fictions, and we might include yours.

_Lit. Asp._ (_making the best of things_). Well, _some_ good books
have appeared in a shilling form.

_Pub._ Yes. But it's not a shilling form we should propose. The fact
is, that there is a great run on Penny Novelettes just now, and--

_Lit. Asp._ (_rising_). And you dare to propose bringing out the
_Sixteen Goblins_ as a Penny Novelette!

_Pub._ Certainly, and in view of the risk of actions for libel,
you would have to pay the printing-bill, and give us a contract of
indemnity in case your _Captain Wildfire_ did turn out to be identical
with some retired pirate who feels himself hurt at your description.
You don't think much of the proposal? Well, nor do we of the book, to
tell you the truth. Ta, ta!

    [_Disappears into inner room. Literary Aspirant slowly folds
    up his novel, and exit._

       *       *       *       *       *

MOTTO FOR THE DIVORCE COURT.--Marry, and come up!

       *       *       *       *       *



    SCENE--_The Tombs of the SCALIGERS at Verona. A seedy and
    voluble Cicerone, who has insisted upon volunteering his
    services, is accompanying Miss TROTTER, BOB PRENDERGAST,
    and CULCHARD. It is a warm afternoon, and CULCHARD, who
    has been intrusted with Miss T.'s recent purchases--two
    Italian blankets, and a huge pot of hammered copper--is
    not in the most amiable of moods._

_The Cicerone_ (_in polyglot_). Ecco, Signore (_pointing out the
interlaced ladders in the wrought-iron railings_), l'échelle, la
scala, c'est tout flexible--(_He shakes the trellis_)--molto, molto

_Culch._ (_bitterly, to the other two_). I _warned_ you how it would
be! We shall have this sort of thing all the afternoon _now_!

_Miss T._ Well, I don't mind; he's real polite and obliging--and
that's something, anyway!

[Illustration: "Bellissimo scultore!"]

_Culch._ Polite and obliging! Now I _ask_ you--has he given us the
slightest atom of valuable information _yet_?

_Miss T._ I guess he's too full of tact to wish to interfere with your
special department!

_The Cic._ (_to CULCHARD, who looks another way_). Ici le tombeau di
GIOVANNI DELLA SCALA, Signore. Verri grazioso molto magnifique, joli
conservé! (_He skins up on the pedestal, and touches a sarcophagus_.)
Non bronzo--verde-antique!

    [_Nods at CULCHARD, with a beaming smile._

_Culch._ (_with a growl_). Va bene, va bene--_we_ know all about it!

_Bob P. You_ may; but you might give Miss TROTTER and me a chance, you

_The Cic._ Zees, Marmor di Carrara; _zat_, Marmor di Verona--Verona
marbre. MARTINO PRIMO a fait bàtir. (_Counting on his fingers for
CULCHARD's benefit._) Quattuor dichièmé secolo--_fotteen_!

_Culch._ Will you kindly understand that I am quite capable of
estimating the precise period of this sculpture for myself.

_The Cic._ Si-si, Signore. Scultore BONINO DA CAMPIGLIONE. (_With a
wriggle of deferential enthusiasm._) Bellissimo scultore!

_Miss T._ He's got an idea you find him vurry instructive, Mr.
CULCHARD, and I guess, if you want to disabuse him, you'd better do it
in Italian.

_Culch._ I think my Italian is equal to conveying an impression that
I can willingly dispense with his society. (_To the Cic._) Andate
via--do you understand? An-da-te _via_!

_The Cic._ (_hurt, and surprised_). Ah, Signore!

    [_He breaks into a fervent vindication of his value as guide,
    philosopher, and friend._

_Miss T._ I guess he's endeavouring to intimate that his wounded
self-respect isn't going to be healed under haff a dollar. And every
red cent I had went on that old pot! Mr. CULCHARD, will you give him a
couple of francs for me?

_Culch._ I--er--really see no necessity. He's done nothing whatever to
deserve it!

_Bob P._ (_eagerly_). May _I_. Miss TROTTER? (_Producing a ten-lire
note_.) This is the smallest change I've got.

_Miss T._ No. I guess ten francs would start him with more
self-respect than he's got any use for. Mr. CULCHARD will give him
three--that's one apiece--to punish him for being so real mean!

_Culch._ (_indignantly_). Mean? because I--! (_He pays and dismisses
the Cic._) Now we can examine these monuments in peace--they are
really--er--unique examples of the sepulchral pomp of Italian

_Miss T._ They're handsome tombs enough--but considerable cramped. I
should have thought these old Scallywags would have looked around
for a roomier burying lot. (_To CULCHARD, who shivers_.) You aren't
feeling sick any?

_Culch._ No--only pained by such a travesty of a noble name.
"Scallywags" for SCALIGERS seems to me, if I may say so, a very cheap
form of humour!

_Miss T._ Well, it's more than cheap--it isn't going to cost you a
cent, so I should think you'd appreciate it!

_Bob P._ Haw--score for _you_, Miss TROTTER!

_Culch._ I should have thought myself that mere personality is hardly
enough to give point to any repartee--there is a slight difference
between brilliancy and--er--_brutality_!

_Bob P._ Hullo! You and I are being sat upon pretty heavily, Miss

_Miss T._ I guess our Schoolmaster's abroad. But why Mr. CULCHARD
should want to make himself a train out of my coverlets, I don't just
see--he looks majestic enough without that.

    [_CULCHARD catches up a blanket which is trailing, and says
    bad words under his breath._


_Culch._ (_who is gradually recovering his equanimity_). Think of
it! the actual spot on which _Romeo_ and _Juliet_--SHAKSPEARE's
_Juliet_--drew their last breath! Does it not realise the tragedy for

_Miss T._ Well, no--it's a disappointing tomb. I reckoned it would
look less like a horse-trough. I should have expected _Juliet's_ Poppa
and Momma would want, considering all the facts of the case, to throw
more style into her monument!

_Culch._ (_languidly_). May not its very simplicity--er--attest the
sincerity of their remorse?

_Miss T._ Do you attach any particular meaning to that observation
now? (_CULCHARD bites his lip._) I notice this tomb is full of
visiting cards--my! but ain't that curious?

_Culch._ (_instructively_). It only shows that this place is not
without its pathos and interest for _most_ visitors, no matter what
their nationality may be. You don't feel inclined yourself to--?

_Miss T._ To leave a pasteboard? Why I shouldn't sleep any all night,
for fear she'd return my call!

_Culch._ (_producing a note-book_). It's fanciful, perhaps but, if you
don't mind waiting a little, I should like to contribute--not my card,
but a sonnet. I feel one on its way.

_Bob P._ Better make sure the tomb's _genuine_ first, hadn't you? Some
say it _isn't_.

_Culch._ (_exasperated_). I _knew_ you'd make some matter-of-fact
remark of that kind! There--it's no use! Let us go.

_Miss T._ Why, your sonnets seem as skeery as those lizards there! I
hope JULIET won't ever know what she's missed. But likely you'll mail
those verses on to her later.

    [_She and BOB P. pass on, laughing._

_Culch._ (_following_). She only affects this vulgar flippancy to
torment me. If I didn't know _that_--There, I've left that infernal
pot behind now!

    [_Goes back for it, wrathfully._

    _In the Amphitheatre; Miss PRENDERGAST, PODBURY, and VAN
    BOODELER, are seated on an upper tier._

_Podb._ (_meditatively_). I suppose they charged highest for the
lowest seats. Wonder whether a lion ever nipped up and helped himself
to some fat old buffer in the Stalls when the martyrs turned out a
leaner lot than usual!

_Van. B._ There's an ingenuous modernity about our friend's historical
speculations that is highly refreshing.

_Miss P._ There is, indeed--though he might have spared himself and
_us_ the trouble of them if he had only remembered that the _podium_
was invariably protected by a railing, and occasionally by _euripi_,
or trenches. You surely learnt that at school. Mr. PODBURY?

_Podb._ I--I daresay. Forgotten all I learnt at school, you know!

_Van. B._ I should infer now, from that statement, that you enjoyed
the advantages of a pretty liberal education?

_Podb._ If that's meant to be cutting. I should save it up for that
novel of yours; it may seem smart--_there_!

_Miss P._ Really, Mr. PODBURY, if you choose to resent a playful
remark in that manner, you had better go away.

_Podb._ Perhaps I had. (_Rises, and moves off huffily_). D---- his
playfulness! 'Pon my word, poor old CULCHARD was _nothing_ to
that beggar! And she backs him up! But there--it's all part of my
probation! (_Here CULCHARD suddenly appears, laden with burdens._)
Hullo! are you _moving_, or what?

_Culch._ I am merely carrying a few things for Miss TROTTER. (_Drops
the copper pot, which bounds down into the arena._) Dash the thing!...
(_Returning with it_.) It's natural that, in my position, I should
have these--er--privileges. (_He trips over a blanket._) Conf--Have
you happened to see Miss TROTTER about, by the way?

_Podb._ Fancy I saw her down below just now--with BOB. I expect
they're walking round under the arches.

_Culch._ Just so. Do you know, PODBURY, I almost think I'll go down
and find her. I--I'm curious to hear what her impressions of a place
like this are. Such a scene, you know,--so full of associations
with--er--the splendours and cruelties of a corrupt past--must produce
a powerful effect upon the fresh untutored mind of an American girl,

_Miss T.'s voice_ (_distinctly from arena_). I'd like ever so much to
see Buffalo BILL run his Show in here--he'd just make this old circus

_Miss P.'s voice_ (_indistinctly from topmost tier_). Almost fancy
it all.... Senators--_equites--populus--pullati_... yellow sunlight
striking down through _vellarium_ ... crimsoned sand ... _mirmillo_
fleeing before _secutor_ ... DIOCLETIAN himself, perhaps, lolling over
there on _cubiculum_ ... &c., &c., &c.

_Culch._ The place appears to excite Miss PRENDERGAST's enthusiasm, at
all events! [_Sighs._

_Podb._ Rath-er! But then she's no end of a classical swell, you know!

_Culch._ (_putting his arm through PODBURY's._) Ah, well, my dear
PODBURY, one mustn't expect too much, must one?)

_Podb._ I _don't_, old chap--only I'm afraid _she_ does. Suppose we
toddle back to the hotel, eh? Getting near _table d'hôte_ time.

    [_They go out arm-in-arm._

       *       *       *       *       *


A kind Correspondent calls _Mr. Punch's_ attention to the fact that
'ARRY the Ubiquitous crops up even in the Classics, as ARRIUS, in
fact, in _Carmen_ lxxxiv. of CATULLUS. How proud 'ARRY will be to hear
of his classical prototype! Our Correspondent "dropping into verse,"

[Illustration: 'Arry the Classic in his Swell Toga-ry]

  Yes! Your Cockney is eternal;
    ARRIUS speaks in 'ARRY still:
  Vaunts 'is "hincome" by paternal
    "Hartful" tricks hup 'Olborn 'Ill.

How well he is justified may be seen by a glance at the text of


  "C_h_ommoda" dicebat, si quando commoda vellet
    Dicere, et "_h_insidias" ARRIUS insidias:
  Et tum miritice sperabat se esse locutum.
    Cum, quantum poterat, dixerat "_h_insidias."
  Credo, sic mater, sic Liber avunculus ejus,
    Sic maternus avus dixerit, atque avia.
                      CATULLUS, _Carmen_ lxxxiv.

Which--for the benefit of 'ARRY himself, who is not perhaps familiar
with the "Lingo Roruano"--though he may know something of a "Romano"
dear to certain young sportsmen, though not dearer to them than other
caterers,--may thus be _very_ freely adapted:--

  'ARRY to _H_oxford gives the aspirate still
  He cruelly denies to 'Ighgate 'Ill;
  Yet deems in diction he can ape the "Swell,"
  And "git the 'ang of it" exceeding well.
  Doubtless his sire, the 'atter, and his mother,
  The hupper 'ousemaid, so addressed each other;
  For spite of all that wrangling Board Schools teach,
  There seems heredity in Cockney speech.

       *       *       *       *       *

the Royal Academy!" says _Mr. Punch_, U.P.B.B., enthusiastically;
"a splendid lecture, Sir, that of yours last Thursday, given to the
architectural and other Academical students. who, acting upon your
advice, should be each one the architect of his own fortune. Your
sharply dashed-off portrait of The Grand Monarque, the 'Roi Soleil,
majestic in the many-storey'd wig,'--the King being built up quite
mon-architecturally,--'which encircled his retreating brow,' was
masterly. More power to your elbow, Sir FREDERICK--that is, if you
require it. _Mr. Punch_, Universal President of Brother Brushes,
fraternally and cordially salutes you."

       *       *       *       *       *

LATEST IN MASSAGE.--Our friend, Mrs. RAM, says she will not be "sham
pooh'd;" she will be either really pooh'd, or not pooh'd at all.

       *       *       *       *       *



MR. W.S. GILBERT ought to have been engaged as Counsel in the
_Duplany_ v. _Duplany_ divorce case, when, attired in his wig, gown,
and hands--ARTHUR SULLIVAN's full hands of course--he could have put
the question which Mr. GILL had to make a pint of putting, i.e., as to
the occasional use of strong language. Set librettically, "_Firenza la
bella_" would have answered in her sweetest strain and with her most
bewitching Florentine manner, "I never use a big big D." To her the
Counsel, not Mr. GILL but Mr. GIL-BERT, would have retorted musically,
"What '_never_'?'" To him the fair Witness, replying on consideration,
"Well,--hardly ever!" Then the chorus, led by the Judge, Sir FRANCIS
JEUNE, and joined in by all the Jeuniors of his Court, would have
wound up this portion of the proceedings, if not harmoniously, at
least tunefully. For future reference, it would be known as "the
Big Big D-ivorce Case." How such occasional musical outbursts would
lighten the labours of the Court through many a tedious case! And in
a _cause un peu célèbre_ like this, where there is a crammed house
and enthusiastic audience ready to take every point, and risk possible
expulsion rather than remain quiet, what a relief such a burst of song
would be to everybody's pent-up feelings and bottled-up excitement.
The comedy is all very well, but the finale is tragic, the last scene
of all being from the historical subject with modern application
representing "MARIUS seated among the ruins" of what might have been a
happy domestic life.

       *       *       *       *       *


We've jist bin and had sitch a Pannick in the City as we ain't not had
since the prowd and orty Portogeese threttened to stop any more old
Port from leaving of their shores, unless we guv 'em up ever so much
of the hinside of Afrikey. Ah, that was a pannick that was, and all
us Waiters felt it severially, but her Majesty's Guvernment, seeing at
wunce the sollem natur of the threat, made such terrems as settled the
hole affair, and Port went down as ushal.


Well that was bad enuff in all conshense, but it was nothink to what
we has all bin threttened with, from the Lord MARE on his throne of
power to the umblest waiter of his royal estaberlishmunt. I herd ony
last week from the Gildall Beedle, so it must be trew, that ever so
many of what's called Comishunners of Suers had cum a tearing down
stairs from their place up above, a cussin and a swearin like mad,
becoz the Kumpany as was a jest beginnin for to lite up our streets
with Lectrissity. had writtin for to say as they coodn't get it dun
for more nor another year. Well that was bad enutf for them as likes
that tell-tail lite, "but wuss remanes behind," as the Pote says; and
I reelly ardly xpecs to be beleeved when I says, as they threttened
not to lite up the onered Manshun Ouse to the werry last! and as the
gas has all a bin taken away, there wooden have been not no lites, and
consequently not no Dinner in that grand Ome of Horspitallerty, not
for twelve long weary hungry munse!

The shudder as run thro Gildhall when this was fust menshund, the
Beedel tells me, was sumthink quite orful, and the langwidge used,
ewen by anshant Deppertys, sumthink not to remember, but sumthink to
forget as soon as posserbel.

However, a gentle reminder from them as could do what they threttind,
whether it was six months' hard, or suppenshun from wun of their own
tall, red lamp postesses, brort them all to their sewen senses, and
everythink is to be reddy for the fust State Bankwet at the reglar
hour on the reglar day; and so the dedly wroth of the grand old
Copperashun is apeezed, and there is no longer enny tork of a mighty
band of hindignent Welshers a marching up to Town to awenge the dedly
hinsult with which their poplar Monnark was threttined!

Wun of our werry cleverest Depputys said to me.--"Ah, Mr. ROBERT, if
our ennemys had reelly xtinguished all our light, I shoud indeed have
said, with the Pote, _Habsent Homen!_"

I didn't kno a bit what he meant, but I rayther think it were sumthink
seesonnabel about Ome sweet Ome, or about the likker "habsinth," wich
I don't hold with. But I quite agreed with him.


       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "SAUCE FOR THE GOOSE," &C.

JUST NOW?" (_Pause._) "MUMMY, I MEAN--"


_Ethel_. "OH!" (_After thoughtfully considering the matter with regard

       *       *       *       *       *


    ["I am quite proud to think that my son marries one who was
    born in this country, has been educated in this country, and
    has the feelings of an Englishwoman."--_H.R.H. the Prince of
    Wales at the Civil Service Dinner_.]

  The Prince's word will strike a chord
    Of sympathy and pleasure
  In English hearts. Not from abroad
    Young CLARENCE brought his treasure.
  He finds his MAY in British mead;
    'Tis _Punch's_ pleasant duty
  The old chorus once again to lead,
    "For England, Home, and Beauty!"

  England!--the fair betrothed was born
    Within the seas that bind us;
  Home!--not from far court-precincts torn,
    This Princess comes to find us.
  Beauty!--well, look upon that face,
    Whilst PUNCHIUS Cupid hovers,
  With crowning wreath and genial grace,
    Above the Royal lovers.

  Fair home-grown flower, bright English MAY,
    Whose promise cheers December,
  And who will make "wild March" so gay;
    _Punch_ can right well remember.
  Betrothals many, bridals too,
    Your lover's sire's among them,
  And with a loyalty frank yet true
    Has generally sung them.

  And so for you he bath a stave,
    Latest of the bright bevy.
  On gentle hearts and spirits brave
    The toll of love you'll levy.
  We trust that fortune may prove fair,
    And life's long pathway rosy,
  And love attend the Royal pair,
    The young "_Promessi Sposi._"

  An English bridal it will be
    When March brings round the spring time,
  And English hearts will hail with glee
    The coming of the ring-time.
  _Punch_--like his Prince--is "proud to think"
    It then will be his duty,
  Once more the fine old toast to drink--
    "For England, Home, and Beauty!"

       *       *       *       *       *



I have just received a copy of _The Almanack_, which, if I may say so,
is worthy of the approach to the close of "the so-called Nineteenth
Century." Not to go further into particulars, I should say that
"A Doll's Diary" will be hard to beat in contemporary Christmas

It was, Sir, not with the intention of making this obvious remark that
I break in upon your reflections. My purpose was moved by discovering
on the front corner of this work of Literature and Art the legend,
"Price 6d.; _Inland postage_, 2d." Looking at the postal cover which
lightly bore the treasure o'er land and sea to this ancient town, I
discovered, that coming under the "foreign postage rate," 1½d. had
served the turn. Whence it appears, that had I, as usual at this
season of the year, been at my country address, to be found in _Dod_,
the _Almanack_ would have cost me, or someone else (it is beside the
argument), 2d. Whereas, being hundreds of miles away from the placid
pastures that surround The Kennel, Berks, the postage is 25 per cent.
less in amount. In one case, where the larger sum and the less amount
of labour were concerned, the English Post-Office, taking all the
money, charge 2d.; in the other, calling in the assistance of Belgium
and Germany, and of course sharing with them the plunder, 1½d. is held
to be the fair recompense for the immensely extended labour. Isn't
this something in the way of reversal of the ordinary trade axiom, as
who should say "Twopence Plain; a Penny, Coloured"?

In its immediate application it is a small thing. People privileged
to receive _Punch's Almanack_ through the post will not quibble over
a half-penny. But it is evident that a system which embodies an
arrangement that needs only to be stated to have its absurdity
demonstrated, wants looking after.

I beg to give my friend, the new Postmaster-General, notice that, as
soon as the House meets, I shall put a question on the subject. In the
meanwhile, and always I am, honoured Sir, your obliged and obedient


_Kaiserbad, Aachen, Monday_.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "ENGLAND, HOME, AND BEAUTY!"]

       *       *       *       *       *


Perhaps a version "up to date" (as the slang goes) of _Our Village_,
may interest the supporters of the Statesman Mr. ACLAND, without
annoying the admirers of the poet WAL PINK.



  For centuries the Village was maintained, without cessation,
    As "a Squire and Parson's paddock," just to keep poor yokels down,
  But all that is to be altered, at the Radical's instigation,
    We're settling on a village which shall have the charms of town.
  It's shaped on Democratic lines, it is _in nubibus_ yet,
    But when Reform's set going, it's a horse that does not stop.
  The House o' Commons has pronounced, and though old Tories fuss, yet
    All understand the tyrant has the tip to shut up shop.



    In the Village, new Village, a healthy little spot,
    The home of rural Hygiene, where nasty smells are not,
      Where HODGE shan't be the thrall
      Of the Vicarage and the Hall,
    In the Village shaped on Democratic lines!

  There bobbing to their "betters" shall not be an institution
    With the Jemmies and the Jessamies, as in the good old day;
  There "Washhouses" shall civilise chawbacons--by ablution,
    And Drink-shops shall not freely tithe the ploughman's paltry pay.
  There shall be a Parish Council by the householders elected,
    Who will snub "the Village tyrant" and will cut the Parson's comb;
  And when once 'tis constituted such reform may be expected
    That poor HODGE in all sincerity may sing his "_Home, Sweet Home!_"

  _Chorus_.--In the Village, new Village, the sanitary spot,
    A small self-governed commune with full powers to "allot,"
      A Free Library for all,
      And a handsome Meeting Hall,
    In the Village shaped on Democratic lines!

  There the Labourer shall not half-starve on "swankey." and thin pottage,
    With a prospect of the Workhouse when no longer he can work;
  But shall have a fragrant pigstye, and a sanitary cottage,
    And a voice in local business which the big-wigs cannot burke.
  The rural working-man shall superintend his children's schooling,
    And control long ill-used "charities," and champion "common rights,"
  And, in fact, there'll be an end to Squire's sole sway and Parson's fooling,
    And the rustic's sole hope-beacon shall no more be "London's Lights."

  _Chorus_.--In the Village, new Village, &c., &c.

  There the peasant politician with the Guardian shall grapple,
    And keep up the rural standard, and keep down the local rates;
  The haughty Church no longer there shall lord it o'er the Chapel,
    And the Voluntary School shall find the level it so hates.
  In short, with Local Government invested, the whole Village
    Shall grow vigorous, and virtuous, and prosperous, and proud,
  And free from Landlord pressure, and the Parson's petty pillage,
    The peasants shall no longer to the slums of London crowd.

  _Chorus_.--From the Village, new Village, a happy little spot,
  A home of peace and plenty, where oppression may not plot;
      Where there's room enough for all.
      And the "hind" is _not_ a "thrall,"
  In the Village shaped on Democratic lines!

       *       *       *       *       *




The sun was setting behind the towers of the church of

[It must be clearly and distinctly understood that this village is not
intended to refer to any parish with the word "green" introduced in
the title--all incumbents of such livings being the most honourable
and distinguished of men.]

Two persons were bidding one another adieu. The first was a man in the
prime of life wearing a suit of tweeds.

[Please note that the name of the tailor is not given, and it is not
to be assumed for a single moment that this refers to any individual
in particular.]

The girl, for she was only a girl, wore a costume of almost
puritanical simplicity.

[Again no dressmaker is singled out for discussion. It is a purely
fancy portrait.]

They were both in tears. For the hour had come for their parting.

[It is necessary to state that by "parting" no reference is made to
any existing firm of hair-dressers.]

For a moment they were silent, watching Phoebus as he descended in his
glory of purple and gold.

[This refers to the mythical God of Day, and is not to be confounded
with a member of a well-known firm of manufacturers of blacking.]

Then they spoke to one another.

"ZOZIMUS," she murmured, softly, "and is this our last meeting?"

[The name of ZOZIMUS was selected for the hero because it is an
uncommon one, and consequently unlikely to be confounded with any
more frequently-used designation. If by an unlucky chance there _is_ a
ZOZIMUS, he is assured that the coincidence is purely accidental.]

"I am afraid it must be so, my ZULUWOLFA," was the heartbroken

[Again the name has been chosen on the same lines as the selection
of ZOZIMUS, and the explanation above given may be taken as having
reference to both.]

"And so you are going across the sea in a boat?" she queried, trying
to smile, in spite of her blinding tears.

[No boat in particular is intended, and we have the author's authority
for saying that he has the greatest respect for every official
connected with the shipping interest.]

"Yes," he returned, sadly, "it is my father's wish, and I trust that
in a new world I shall find greater prosperity than I have been able
to achieve in dear old England."

[No reference is made in the above to any weekly publications,
although, perhaps the _World_ and _England_ may have been taken as
titles for Saturday journals. Before passing this passage, we received
the assurance of the author that he felt the deepest esteem for the
Editors of the periodicals thus inadvertently mentioned.]

"Well, my beloved, you will soon see me; and, dead or alive, I shall
be by your side in the spirit."

[This passage is not intended to single out any particular firm of

"We shall meet again," he cried, pressing her frail form to his
breast. "Indeed we shall meet again."

[It must not be assumed that there has been a misprint in the
above passage, and that reference is made to any particular firm of

And so they parted!

(_To be continued in our next, after consultation with our

       *       *       *       *       *

WITHOUT THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON.--A few days since the Justices
of South Shields sentenced a vagrant verging upon seventy years of
age, to fourteen days imprisonment with hard labour--a matter to which
attention was called when the Coroner held an inquest in the gaol on
the poor old fellow's body. It would be interesting to know the names
of these "un-worthies," so that they might be gibbeted as a contrast
to the sentiments that will prevail when Christmas ushers in a time of
peace and good-will!

       *       *       *       *       *

A STORY OF THE SEA (_told on the Beach at Brighton_).--"Fine day for a
sail, Sir!"

       *       *       *       *       *


At the Meet he attracted no little attention.

When Hounds went away, he quickly assumed a prominent position.

Though his manner of taking Rails was rather risky,

Yet his Courage was undeniable.

He proved excellent at Water,

And his method of taking the Fox from the Hounds was novel and

       *       *       *       *       *


We have recently been favoured by a communication from a firm of
Publishers, which informs us that, in a story sent for review, "by
an oversight of the binder," the Epilogue was omitted, and inclosing
that interesting document. We have perused the four pages with so much
pleasure, that we suggest that, instead of writing the whole story,
novelists, in future, should only publish the final chapter, which
might be beneficially compressed into a few lines. As a lead, we print
a few conclusions, to serve as models:--

_Specimen of a Happy Ending_.--And so there was nothing more to do
but to get married, and consequently EDWIN led no happier bride to
the altar than his much persecuted and greatly tried ANGELINA. So the
bells of Tinkleton rang out their merriest chimes as the sun went down
on the stately towers of Castle Sympleton.

_Specimen of an Unhappy Ending_.--So, at peace with all the world,
still holding the hand she loved so well, and smiling a smile that
brought tears into the eyes of the good old Colonial Bishop, FLORA
faded away into the Golden Dream she knew so well!

_Specimen of a Mysterious Ending_.--And so HUGH, carrying a lamp
in his right hand, and grasping the blade of his sword in his left,
entered the cave of which he had heard so much. Will he ever return?
Who can tell?

_Specimen of a Comic Ending_.--"So it was you, after all!" cried the
Cheesemonger, with a shout of laughter.

EGERTON SWELLINGTON smiled an assent.

"Then all I can say," continued the worthy trader, "is, that a miss is
as good as a mile."

And, for once in his life, Mr. DOUBLECHIN was absolutely right!

_Specimen of the Poetical Ending_.--So with the blue-bells sighing
soft music, and the stars chanting their soothing lullaby, the sweet
soul of MARIA realised the truth that--

  'Tis better to have loved and lost,
  Than never to have loved at all.

_Specimen of the Shocker's Ending_.--And with a gasp and a reel, Sir
RALPH fell back, back, back, down the precipice, and an hour later was
found by the patrolling coast-guardsman a quivering mass of senseless

_Specimen of the Christmas Ending_.--And so, linked hand in hand,
father and mother, son and daughter, husband and wife, nephew and
niece, bowed their heads beneath the holly and mistletoe, and wished
one another, with a heartiness that told volumes, "A Merry Christmas
and a Happy New Year!"

       *       *       *       *       *


1. If the Vice-Chancellor's authority to punish immorality within the
bounds of the University town of Cambridge is to be done away
with, will he still retain the then quite superfluous title of

2. On the abolition of "The Spinning-House," as plucked candidates
are often spoken of as men who were "spun" for such-and-such
an examination, might not the Senate-House be known as "The

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *


    [In a recent libel action, brought against an author by an
    African merchant, Mr. GEORGE MEREDITH was called as a witness.
    He said:--

    "The story in dispute passed through his hands as reader for
    the publishers. Asked in cross-examination if he thought that
    the opening of the story relating to the hero's mother did not
    offend against the canons of good taste, the witness answered
    that it was the attempt of a writer of serious mind to be
    humorous. It might be almost called a stereotype of that
    form of the element of humour. It was a failure but still
    passed with the public.--The Judge: A kind of elephantine
    humour?--The Witness: Quite so. I did not like it, but one
    would have to object to so much."

    There the report of Mr. MEREDITH'S evidence ends. Exigencies
    of space apparently caused the omission of a great deal of
    it. Fortunately it is in our power to supply this

[Illustration: Very much En Évidence; or, George in the box.]

_The Judge_. Quite so, Mr. MEREDITH. I may say for myself that I fully
understand you. But perhaps it would be well to explain yourself a
_leetle_ more clearly for the benefit of the jury.

_Mr. George Meredith_. My Lord, I will put it with a convincing
brevity, not indeed a dust-scattering brevity fit only for the
mumbling recluse, who perchance in this grey London marching Eastward
at break of naked morn, daintily protruding a pinkest foot out of
compassing clouds, copiously takes inside of him doses of what is
denied to his external bat-resembling vision, but with the sharp
brevity of a rotifer astir in that curative compartment of a
homoeopathic globule--so I, humorously purposeful in the midst, of

_The Judge_. One moment, Mr. MEREDITH. Have you considered--

_Mr. G.M._ Consideration, my Lord, is of them that sit revolving
within themselves the mountainously mouse-productive problems of the
overtoppingly catastrophic backward ages of empurpled brain-distorting
puzzledom: for puzzles, as I have elsewhere said, come in
rattle-boxes, they are actually children's toys, for what they
contain, but not the less do they buzz at our understandings and
insist that they break or we, and, in either case, to show a mere
foolish idle rattle in hollowness. Nor have the antic bobbings--

_Sir Charles Russell_ (_cross-examining_). Really, Mr. MEREDITH, I
fail to follow you. Would it not be possible--

_Mr. G.M._ Ay, there you have it. In truth, the question looks like a
paragraph in a newspaper, upon which a Leading Article sits, dutifully
arousing the fat worm of sarcastic humour under the ribs of cradled
citizens, with an exposure of its excellent folly. For the word.
That is it. The word is Archon, with extended hand summoning the
collaboratorically ordained, misbegotten brood of shock-shilling
pamphlets to his regal presence--

_The Judge_ (_testily_). No doubt that would be so, but it brings us
no nearer to a decision upon the question of humour in the particular
passage of the book which contains the alleged libel.

_Sir Charles Russell_. Perhaps I can shorten matters, my Lord. Now,
Mr. MEREDITH, will you be kind enough to explain the following passage
from a book with which you may perhaps be acquainted. (_Reads_.) "This
he can promise to his points. As for otherwhere than at the festive,
Commerce invoked is a Goddess that will have the reek of those boards
to fill her nostrils, and poet and alderman alike may be dedicate to
the sublime, she leads them, after two sniffs of an idea concerning
her, for the dive into the turtle-tureen. Heels up they go, poet
first--a plummet he!" Is that humorous, or, if not, what is it?

_Mr. G.M._ Elephantine, I think; yet not elephantine altogether,
since of them that crash amid jungle of atrophied semi-consciousness,
strivingly set upon an overtopping mastery--

_Sir Charles Russell_ (_interrupting_). Thank you. The passage is from
_One of our Conquerors_. Here is another:--"Reverting to the father
and mother, his idea of a positive injury, that was not without its
congratulations, sank him down among his disordered deeper sentiments,
which were a diver's wreck, where an armoured livid subtermarine, a
monstrous puff-ball of man, wandered seriously light in heaviness;
trebling his hundredweights to keep him from dancing like a
bladder-block of elastic lumber." And while you are about it,
pray inform the Court what you mean by "the vulgarest of our
gobble-gobbets," or by "a trebly cataphractic Invisible."

_Mr. G.M._ Truly, the louder members of the grey public are
fraternally instant to spurn at the whip of that which they do not
immediately comprehend. But to me, plunged chokingly in translucent
profundities of aquamarine splendour, not of a truth that in the
heights above splendour resides not, chidingly offering a fat
whiskerless cheek to the blows of circumstance, this was ever the
problem of problems. How to write. How not to write. This way and
that the raging fates tug the hapless reader, pillowed he upon the
vast brown bosom of his maternal earth, or lurefully beckoning the
dim shadow-shapes of dodecahedronic cataplasmatic centipede fatally
conditioned to the everlasting pyramid of a star-pointing necessity.

_The Judge_ (_with determination_). Mr. MEREDITH, the Court is
sincerely obliged to you for your extremely valuable evidence. We are
unwilling to detain you any longer. Besides, after what you have said,
the point is as clear as daylight. Good morning, Mr. MEREDITH, good
morning. You may become a trebly cataphractic Invisible.

       *       *       *       *       *



  Oh, the Autumn leaves are falling, and the days are closing in,
  And the breeze is growing chilly, and my hair is getting thin!
  I've a comfortable income--and my age is thirty-three;
  But my Thatch is thinning quickly--yes, as quickly as can be!

  I was once a merry urchin--curly-headed I was called,
  And I laughed at good old people when I saw them going bald;
  But it's not a proper subject to be lightly joked about,
  For it's dreadful to discover that your roof is wearing out!

  I remember asking Uncle--in my innocent surprise--
  How he liked his head made use of as a Skating Rink by flies;
  But although their dread intrusion I shall manfully resist,
  I'm afraid they'll soon have got another Rink upon their list.

  When invited to a party I'm invariably late,
  For I waste the time in efforts to conceal my peeping pate--
  Though I coax my hair across it--though I brush away for weeks,
  Yet I _can't_ prevent it parting and dividing into streaks!

  I have tried a Hair Restorer, and I've rubbed my head with rum,
  But the thatch keeps getting thinner, and the new hair doesn't come--
  So I gaze into the mirror with a gloomy, vacant stare,
  For the circle's getting wider of that Open Space up there!

  People tell me that my spirits I must not allow to fall.
  And that coming generations won't have any hair at all--
  Well--they'll never know an anguish that can adequately match
  With the pangs of watching day by day the thinning of your Thatch!

       *       *       *       *       *

NOTICE.--Rejected communications or Contributions, whether MS.,
Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no
case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed
Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.

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