Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 101, July 25, 1891
Author: Various
Language: English
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PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 101.



July 25, 1891.



OPERATIC NOTES.

[Illustration: _Amonasro_ (_the Black King_). "I am your father. I've
kept myself dark so long that I've become quite black!"

_Aïda_ (_the White Maiden_). "Oh! go away, black man; don't come anigh
me!! You ought to be _Otello_ to-morrow night."

_Little Ravelli-Radames_ (_aside_). "No matter what colour, I love
her!!"]

[Illustration: Covent Garden Stars seen through the Harriscope.]

_Tuesday, July 14_.--Madame NORDICA is not at her best as _Aïda_. It
lacks colour--that is on the face and hands, where at least should
be shown some more "colourable pretence" for being the daughter of so
blackened a character as is her father _Amonasro_, played as a villain
of the deepest dye by M. DEVOYOD. When the celebrated march was
heard, the players didn't seem particularly strong in trumps, and the
trumpets giving a somewhat "uncertain sound,"--a trifle husky, as if
they'd caught cold,--somewhat marred the usually thrilling effect.
Gorgeous scene; and RAVELLI the Reliable as _Radames_ quite the
success of the evening. Mlle. GUERCIA as _Amneris_ seemed to have
made up after an old steel plate in a bygone Book of Beauty. Where
are those Books of Beauty now! And _The Keepsake_? Where the
pseudo-Byronic poetry and the short stories by Mrs. NAMBY and Mr.
PAMBY? But this is only a marginal note, not in the Operatic score.
Signor ABRAMOFF was a powerful _Ramphis_, his make-up suggesting
that his title would be more appropriately _Rumfiz_,--which would
be an excellent Egyptian name. Very good House, but still suffering
from reaction after Imperial visit, and not to recover itself till
to-morrow, _Wednesday_, when the House is crowded with a brilliant
audience to hear a brilliant performance of _Otello. The Grand Otello
Co. Covent Garden, Limited_. Thoroughly artistic performance of _Iago_
by M. MAUREL. His wicked "Credo" more diabolically malicious than
ever it was at the Lyceum; an uncanny but distinctly striking effect.
Then DRURIOLANUS ASTRONOMICUS gave us a scenic startler in the way
of imitation meteoric effect. 'Twas on this wise: of course, neither
DRURIOLANUS nor any other Manager can carry on an operatic season
without stars, and so they are here, a galaxy of 'em, up above, on
the "back cloth," as it is technically termed, shining brilliantly but
spasmodically, strange portents in the operatic sky. Pity Astronomer
Royal not here to see and note the fact. Next time _Otello_ is given,
if this atmospheric effect is to be repeated, the attendants in the
lobbies might be permitted to supply powerful telescopes at a small
fixed charge. But the greatest star of all is Madame ALBANI as
_Desdemona_; a triumph dramatically and operatically. Her song in the
last Act, the celebrated "_Willow Song_"--which of course no cricketer
ought to miss hearing--was most beautifully and touchingly rendered.
Those persons suffering from the heat of a crowded house, and dreading
the difficulty of finding their "keb or kerridge" in good time, and
who therefore quitted their seats before ALBANI sang the "_Willow
Song_," must, perforce, sing the old refrain, "_O Willow, we have
missed you!_" and go back for it whenever this Opera is played again.
M. JEAN DE RESZKÉ was not, perhaps, quite up to his usual form, or his
usual former self; but, for all that, he justified his responsibility
as one of the largest shareholders in the Grand Otello Company,
Limited. All things considered, and the last best thing being
invariably quite the best, _Otello, or Symphonies in Black and White_,
is about the biggest success of the season.


       *       *       *       *       *

TO AMANDA.

[Illustration]

(_ACCOMPANYING A SET OF VERSES WHICH SHE BADE ME WRITE._)

  Only a trifle, though, i' faith, 'tis smart,
  A _jeu d'esprit_, not art concealing art,
    Fruition of a moment's fantasy,
    Mere mental bubbles, verbal filagree.

  But, though thy lightest wish I would not thwart,
  I prithee bid me play some other part
  Another time, and I will give thee _carte
    Blanche_ to dictate; in truth aught else will be
                            Only a trifle,
  Compared with versifying. I will dart,
  At thy behest, e'en to the public mart
   To buy a bonnet, or will gleefully
   Carry a babe through Bond Street. My sole plea
  Is--no more verses. Surely 'tis, sweetheart,
                        Only a trifle.

       *       *       *       *       *

SUPPLEMENTARY AND CORRECTIVE.--In his Jubilee Number Mr. PUNCH
remarked, "Merely to mention _all_ the bright pens and pencils which
have occasionally contributed to my pages would occupy much space."
And space then was limited. But among the "Great Unnamed" _should_
assuredly have been mentioned W.H. WILLS, one of the originators of
Mr. PUNCH's publication, CLEMENT SCOTT the flowing lyrist, and author
of "The Cry of the Children," &c., ASHBY STERRY of "Lazy Minstrel"
fame, and "ROBERT," the genial garrulous "City Waiter," whilst the
names of J.P. ("Dumb-Crambo") ATKINSON, and E.J. WHEELER, were omitted
by the purest accident. The late H.J. BYRON contributed a series
of papers. Mr. PUNCH hastens to put them--as he would gladly some
others--"on the list," since, of no one of them, could it be truly
said "he never would be missed." "HALBOT" was a misprint for "HABLÔT,"
"MAGUIN HANNAY" should read "MAGINN, HANNAY, &c.," and for "_GEORGE_
SILVER" read "HENRY."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE METROPOLITAN MINOTAUR;

OR, THE LONDON LABYRINTH AND THE COUNTY COUNCIL THESEUS.

    ["Certainly, if some members of the London County Council have
    their way, it will soon have plenty to occupy it without
    being called upon to form a scheme of water-supply for the
    Metropolis."--_The Times_.]

[Illustration]

_L.C.C. loquitur_:--

  Bless me! Things combine so a hero to humble!
  I fancied that Bull-headed Minotaur--BUMBLE,
  Would fall to my hand like Pasiphae's monster
  To Theseus. But oh! every step that I on stir
  Bemuddles me more. I _did_ think myself clever,
  But fear from the Centre I'm farther than ever,
  Oh, this _is_ a Labyrinth! Worse than the Cretan!
  Yet shall the new Theseus admit himself beaten?
  Forbid it, great Progress! Your votary I, Ma'am,
  But in this Big Maze it seems small use to try, Ma'am.
  Mere roundaboutation's not Progress. Get forward?
  Why eastward, and westward and southward, and nor'ward,
  Big barriers stop me! Eh? Centralisation?
  Demolish that monster, Maladministration,
  Whose menaces fright the fair tower-crowned Maiden.
  Most willingly, Madam; but look how I'm laden,
  And hampered! Oh! I should be grateful to you, Ma'am,
  If, like Ariadne, you'd give me a clue, Ma'am.
  _I_'ll never--like treacherous Theseus--desert you;
  My constancy's staunch, like my valour and virtue.
  Through Fire, Water, Wilderness trackless I'll follow,
  But astray in a Maze high ambition seems hollow!

       *       *       *       *       *

WATERLOO TO WEYBRIDGE.

BY THE 6.5 P.M.

  A young man--it's no matter who--
  Hailed a cab and remarked "Waterloo!"
    The driver, with bowed
    Head, sobbed out aloud,
  "Which station?" They frequently do.

  A poet once said that to Esher
  The only good rhyme was "magnesher;"
    This was not the fact,
    And he had to retract,
  Which he did--he retracted with plesher.

  A fancier cried: "There's one fault on
  The part of the sparrows at Walton;
    And that's why I fail
    To put salt on their tail--
  The birds have no tails to put salt on."

  The dulness of riding to Weybridge
  Pleasant chat (mind the accent) may _a_bridge,
    But not when it deals
    With detaching of wheels,
  Collisions, explosions, and Tay Bridge.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE STOLEN PICTURES.--The _Débats_ informed us, last week, that the
thief who stole TENIERS' pictures from the Museum at Rennes has been
discovered. His punishment should "fit the crime," as Mr. GILBERT's
_Mikado_ used to say, and therefore he ought to be sentenced to penal
servitude for _Ten years_.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE PERSONAL EQUATION.

_Dick_ (_who hasn't sold a single Picture this year_). "AND AS FOR
THE BEASTLY BRITISH PUBLIC, NOTHING REALLY GOOD _EVER_ GOES DOWN WITH
IT--NOTHING BUT VULGAR ROT!"

_Tom_ (_who has sold every Picture he has painted_). "OH, BOSH AND
GAMMON, MY DEAR FELLOW. GOOD HONEST WORK IS _ALWAYS_ SURE OF ITS
MARKET--AND ITS _PRICE_!"

[_Next year their luck will be reversed, and also their opinions of
the B.P._]

       *       *       *       *       *

LEAVES FROM A CANDIDATE'S DIARY.

_Wednesday, June 11th_.--Left Billsbury last Saturday, having in DICKY
DIKES's words "broken the back of the blooming canvas." During my
last night's round we went into a small house in one of the slums. The
husband was out, but the wife and family were all gathered together
in the back room. There were five children, ranging in age from ten
down to two, and the mother looked the very picture of slatternly
discomfort. We asked the usual questions, and I was just turning to
go, when I heard a violent fit of convulsive coughing from a dark
corner. The mother got up and went to the corner. I couldn't help
following, and saw the most miserable spectacle I ever set eyes on. In
a sort of cradle was lying the smallest, frailest and most absolutely
pinched and colourless baby choking with every cough, and gasping
horribly for breath. I don't know what I said, but the mother turned
to DIKES and said, "He haven't much longer to cough. I shall want the
undertakers for him soon." I asked her if nothing could be done, but
she merely replied, "It'll be better so. We've too many mouths to feed
without him." I couldn't stay longer after that, but fairly bolted out
of the house.

Our people are jubilant about our prospects. The canvas shows, they
say, a steady increase in our favour, the registrations have been
uniformly good, and, best of all, Sir THOMAS CHUBSON again voted and
spoke on the wrong side, when the Billsbury Main Drainage Bill came on
for Second Reading in the House the other day. Our point is of course
that, if this scheme were carried out, there would be a great deal of
work for Billsbury labourers, and, somehow or other, a large amount
of money would be spent in the town. We have rubbed this well in at
every meeting we have held lately, and found it a most effective
point during the canvas. CHUBSON and the Radicals talk about a great
increase of the rates which would follow on it; but we pooh-pooh this,
and point out that the ultimate saving would be enormous, and that the
health of the town must be benefited. They don't like the business at
all, and feel they've made a mistake.

Have been made on successive nights a Druid, a Forester, and a Loyal
and Ancient Shepherd. All these three are Benefit Societies, and the
mysteries of initiation into each are very similar. Colonel CHORKLE
(who ought to have gone through the business long ago) was made a
Druid with me. I never saw anybody so nervous. All the courage of
all the CHORKLES seemed to have deserted him, and he trembled like a
Volunteer aspen. I told Major WORBOYS on the following day that his
Colonel, who I was sure might be trusted to face a hostile battery
without flinching, had been very nervous when he was made a Druid.
WORBOYS sneered, and said that he'd be willing to take his chance of
CHORKLE's facing the battery or not, if CHORKLE would only learn to
ride decently. "Give you my word of honour," said WORBOYS, "when the
General inspected us last year, CHORKLE's horse ran away with him
three times, and at last we had to march past without him. One of the
tamest horses in the world, too. My boy JACK rides it constantly." But
WORBOYS despises CHORKLE, and thinks he ought to command the regiment
himself. He spread it all over Billsbury that CHORKLE was found hiding
under a table when he was summoned to be initiated, and was dragged
out screaming piteously for mercy.

On my last morning I was interviewed by a deputation from the
Billsbury Branch of The Women's Suffrage League. The deputation
consisted of Mrs. BOSER, the President of the Branch, Miss AMY
GINGELL, the Secretary, and two others. It was a trying business. Mrs.
BOSER is the most formidable person I ever met. I felt like a babe
in her hands after she had glowered at me for five minutes. Finally
I found myself, rather to my own astonishment, promising to vote for
a Women's Suffrage Bill, and adding that Mrs. BOSER's arguments had
convinced me that justice had in this matter been too long denied to
women, and that for my part, if elected, I should lose no opportunity
of recording my vote on the side of women. They seemed pleased,
but the _Meteor_ of the next day had a frightful leader about the
"shameful want of moral fibre in a Conservative Candidate who was thus
content to put the whole Constitution into the melting-pot, if by so
doing he could only secure a few stray votes, and get the help of the
women in his coal-and-blanket expeditions."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

NO. I.

    SCENE--_An Excursion Agents' Offices. Behind the counters
    polite and patient Clerks are besieged by a crowd of Intending
    Tourists, all asking questions at once._

_First Int. T._ Here--have you made out that estimate for me yet?

_Clerk_. In one moment, Sir. (_He refers to a list, turns over
innumerable books, jots down columns of francs, marks, and florins;
reduces them to English money, and adds them up._) First class fares
on the Rhine, Danube and Black Sea steamers, I think you said, second
class rail, and postwagen?

_First Int. T._ I did say so, I believe; but it had better be second
class all through, and I can always pay the difference if I want to.

    [_The Clerk alters the sums accordingly, and adds up again._

_Clerk_. Fifty-five pounds fourteen and a penny, Sir. Shall I make you
put the tickets now?

_First Int. T._ Um, no. On second thoughts, I'd like to see one of
your short Circular Tours for the English Lakes, or Wales, before I
decide.

    [_The Clerk hands him a quantity of leaflets, with which he
    retires._

    _Enter Mr. CLARENDON CULCHARD, age about twenty-eight; in
    Somerset House; tall; clean-shaven, wears glasses, stoops
    slightly, dresses carefully, though his tall hat is of the
    last fashion but two. He looks about him expectantly, and then
    sits down to wait._

_Culchard_ (_to himself_). No sign of him yet! I _do_ like a man to
keep an appointment. If this is the way he _begins_--I have my doubts
whether he is _quite_ the sort of fellow to--but I took the precaution
to ask HUGH ROSE about him, and ROSE said he was the best company in
the world, and I couldn't help getting on with him. I don't think
ROSE would deceive me. And from all I've seen of PODBURY, he seems
a pleasant fellow enough. What a Babel! All these people bent on
pleasure, going to seek it in as many directions--with what success no
one can predict. There's an idea for a sonnet there.

    [_He brings out a pocket-book, and begins to write--"As when
    a--"_

_An Amurrcan Citizen_ (_to_ Clerk). See here, I've been around with
your tickets in Yurrup, and when I was at Vernis, I bought some goods
at a store there, and paid cash down for 'em, and they promised to
send 'em on for me right here, and that was last fall, and I've never
heard any more of 'em, and what I want _you_ should do now is to
instruct your representative at Vernis to go round and hev a talk with
that man, and ask him what in thunder he means by it, and kinder hint
that he'll hev the Amurrcan Consul in his hair pretty smart, if he
don't look slippier!

    [_The Clerk mildly suggests that it would be better to
    communicate directly with the American Consulate, or with
    the tradesman himself._

_The A.C._ But hold on--how'm I goin' to write to that sharp,
when I've lost his address, and disremember his name? Can't you
mail a few particulars to your agent, so he'll identify him? No.
(_Disappointed._) Well, I thought you'd ha' fixed up a little thing
like that, anyhow; in my country they'd ha' done it right away. Yes,
_Sir_! [_He goes away in grieved surprise._

_Enter Mr. JAMES PODBURY, age twenty-six; in a City Office;
short, fresh-coloured, jaunty; close-cut fair hair, and small auburn
moustache. Not having been to the City to-day, he is wearing light
tweeds, and brown boots._

_Podbury_ (_to himself_). Just nicked it!--(_looks at clock_)--more or
less. And he doesn't seem to have turned up yet. Wonder how we shall
hit it off together. HUGHIE ROSE said he was a capital good chap--when
you once got over his manner. Anyhow, it's a great tip to go abroad
with a fellow who knows the ropes. (_Suddenly sees CULCHARD absorbed
in his note-book._) So _here_ you are, eh?

_Culchard_ (_slightly scandalised by the tweeds and the brown boots_).
Yes, I've been here some little time. I wish you could have managed to
come before, because they close early here to-day, and I wanted to go
thoroughly over the tour I sketched out before getting the tickets.
[_He produces an elaborate outline._

_Podbury_ (_easily_). Oh, _that's_ all right! I don't care where _I_
go! All I want is, to see as much as we can in the time--leave all the
rest to you. I'll sit here while you get the tickets.

_An Old Lady_ (_to Clerk, as CULCHARD_) _is waiting at the counter_).
Oh, I _beg_ your pardon, but _could_ you inform me if the 1'55 train
from Calais to Basle stops long enough for refreshments anywhere, and
when they examine the luggage, and if I can leave my handbag in the
carriage, and whether there is an English service at Yodeldorf, and
is it held in the hotel, and Evangelical, or High Church, and are the
sittings free, and what Hymn-book they use?

    [_The Clerk sets her mind free on as many of these points as
    he can, and then attends to CULCHARD._

_Culchard_ (_returning to PODBURY with two cases bulging with books
of coloured coupons_). Here are yours. I should like you to run your
eye over them, and see that they are correct, if you don't mind.

_Podbury_ (_stuffing them in his pocket_). Can't be bothered now. Take
your word for it.

[Illustration: Yes, Sir!]

_Culchard_. No--but considering that we start the first thing
to-morrow morning, wouldn't it be as well to have some idea of where
you're going? And, by the way, excuse me, but is it altogether prudent
to keep your tickets in an outside pocket like that? I always keep
mine, with my money, in a special case in an inner pocket, with a
buttoned nap--then I know I _can't_ lose them.

_Podbury_. Anything for a quiet life! (_He examines his coupons._)
Dover to Ostend? Never been there--like to see what Ostend's like. But
why didn't you go by Calais?--_shorter_ you know.

_Culchard_. Because I thought we'd see Bruges and Ghent on our way to
Brussels.

_Podbury_. Bruges, eh? Capital! Anything particular going on there?
No? It don't matter. And Ghent--let's see, wasn't that where they
brought the good news to? Yes, we'll stop at Ghent--if we've time.
Then--Brussels? Good deal of work to be done there, I suppose,
sightseeing, and that? I like a place where you can moon about without
being bothered myself; now, at _Brussels_--never mind, I was only
thinking.

_Culch._ It's the best place to get to Cologne and up the Rhine from.
Then, you see, we go rather out of our way to Nuremberg--

_Podbury_. Where they make toys? _I_ know--pretty festive there, eh?

_Culch._ I don't know about festive--but it is--er--a quaint,
and highly interesting old place. Then I thought we'd dip down to
Constance, and strike across the Alps to the Italian Lakes.

_Podbury_. Italian Lakes? First--rate! Yes, _they_'re worth seeing, I
suppose. Think they're better than the _Swiss_ ones, though?

_Culch._ (_tolerantly_). I can get the coupons changed for
Switzerland, if you prefer it. The Swiss Lakes may be the more
picturesque.

_Podbury_. Yes, we'll do Switzerland--and run back by Paris, eh? Not
much to do in Switzerland, though, after all!

_Culch._ (_with a faintly superior smile_). There are one or two
mountains, I believe. But, personally, I should prefer Italy.

_Podbury_. So should I. No fun in mountains--unless you go up 'em.
What do you think of choosing some quiet place, where nobody ever
goes--say in France or Germany--and, sticking to _that_. More of a
rest, wouldn't it be? such a bore having to know a lot; of people!

_Culch._ I don't see how we can change _all_ the tickets, really. If
you like, we could stop a week at St. Goarshausen.

_Podbury_. What's St. Goarshausen like--cheery?

_Culch._ I understood the idea was to keep away from our fellow
countrymen, and as far as I can remember St. Goarshausen, it is not
overrun with tourists--we should be quiet enough _there_.

_Podbury_. That's the place for _me_, then. Or could we push on to
Vienna? Never seen Vienna.

_Culch._ If you like to give up Italy altogether.

_Podbury_. What do you say to _beginning_ with Italy and working back?
Too hot, eh? Well, then, we'll let things be as they are--I daresay it
will do well enough. So _that's_ settled!

_Culchard_ (_to himself on parting, after final arrangements
concluded_). I wish ROSE had warned me that PODBURY's habit of mind
was so painfully desultory. (_He sighs._) However--

_Podbury_ (_to himself_). Wonder now long I shall take to get over
CULCHARD's manner. (_He sighs._) I wish old HUGHIE was coming--he'd
give me a leg over!

    [_He walks on thoughtfully._

       *       *       *       *       *

OFF TO MASHERLAND.

(_BY OUR OWN GRANDOLPH._)

[Illustration: "Put out the light, and then--" Being the true story of
The Wonderful Lamp.]

I pause in my communications. Friends, real friends, have wired
over accounts of me on the trip, which have not been written by
"friendlies." Somebody wrote to _Black and White_ what purported to
be Notes about me aboard the gallant _Grantully Castle_, than which
a better-found vessel--"found" is the word--never put to sea. This
somebody ("bless him!"--DR-MM-ND W-LFF will know what I mean) observes
that "he didn't notice" any particular gratitude on my part towards
Captain HAY and his talented assistants. Hay! what? why, confound
them, I was all gratitude! Is it because I did not run at him, embrace
him, and shake his arms off, that therefore I did not _feel_ grateful!
I was awfully grateful. I felt inclined to alter the name of the
vessel to the _Gratefully_ _Castle_. But "she" (you always call a
vessel "she"--isn't that nautical?) "is" as the song says "another's,
and never can be mine!" so I can't change her name. I was overpowered
by my feelings--and what does that mean but the swallowing, with a
gurgle in the throat, of the silent tear, and the avoidance of the
topic uppermost in one's mind at the moment.

"The soldier leant upon his sword, and wiped away a tear"--but the
sailor didn't, _Verb. sap._ What did I do? Why, in my note of notes,
my Private Diary, I made this mem., "_Make Hay while the sun shines._"
Now what, I ask any unprejudiced person, what does this mean? If
Captain HAY were suddenly to be promoted in the hay-day of his
valuable career to be an Admiral, would he suspect that he owed this
elevation to the man who, strictly obeying the ship's orders, _never
even spoke to the man at the wheel_? Now to come to the next point.
This correspondent girds at my having had a special cabin and a
special steward. _Why!_ the envious grumbler! if he had been as
specially unwell as I was--but there, I own I lose patience with
him--didn't I go out as a "Special," and if a Special doesn't have
everything special about him, _he is simply obtaining money under
false pretences_. I've a great mind--I hear the jeerer snigger in his
sleeve--but I repeat emphatically I have a great mind to come back.
"He will return, I know him well," my traducers may sing; and I
shall return when I consider my special work specially done in my own
special manner, and be blowed to em all, the detractors!

[Illustration: Grandolph confiding to the _Chef_ his secret receipt
for cooking a flying-fish.]

He grumbles because I had _a special portable light_ all to myself,
"when I wanted to play cards." Aha! do we see the cloven hoof now?
Was I to play cards _in the dark_? Those who know me best know that I
am all fair and above-board, and no hole-and-corner gambling for me.
And what tale has he to tell? Why that "_Another night, not using his
special light at the time, two other passengers began a game of chess
under its rays._" Which they had no right whatever to do. But I winked
at it, and when the first officer was coming his rounds I winked
at _them_; but this friendly act on my part they did not heed, and
consequently _to save them from being put in irons_ and confined in
the deepest dungeon beneath the _Grantully Castle_ moat, I "_came
along just then_," as he reports, "_and removed the lamp to another
part of the deck, leaving the chess-players in the dark_"--as if this
consequence were anything extraordinary when a lamp is removed! Why
any schoolboy, the merest tyro in Scripture History, knows where the
great Hebrew Lawgiver was _when the candle went out_. And were these
passengers to be exempt from the action of Nature's ordinary laws!
Bah!--"_without a word of apology or explanation_." I _had_ winked,
but they were worse than blind horses, and more resembled the
inferior quadruped in obstinately refusing to move, or in subsequently
acknowledging this act of thoughtful kindness on my part.

As to my eating for breakfast a flying-fish, which somebody on board
had caught and given me, all I ask is, _why shouldn't I?_ I never had
eaten a flying-fish before, and I don't think I ever shall again. If
the gentleman who caught it didn't want me to eat it, he should have
said so: for there were three courses open to him; viz., _first_, to
refuse to give it me; _secondly_, to give it me on condition that I
kept it in memory of the occasion; _thirdly_, to throw it back into
the sea. But there was only one course open to _me_ when I got it,
and that was the first course at breakfast; the second course was
kidgeree. It was a small fish _just enough for one_, and now I rather
fancy I remember this _Black and White_ correspondent, for it must
have been he, coming to my table, eyeing the fish, smacking his lips,
and observing that _he_ "had never had the chance of tasting a fried
flying-fish." At that moment I was just finishing the tail (a sweet
morsel and not the worst part by any means), and there was nothing
left to offer him. So he went away disappointed, with a grudge against
yours truly. This, Sir, is the true tale of the flying-fish, and
if it isn't, let me hear the revised version from my aspersers and
caluminators. I can write no more to-day. I am boiling over, and must
go and kick somebody. Yours, &c.,

[Illustration: Grandolph the Explorer.]

       *       *       *       *       *

HANWELLIAN PRIZE COMPETITION.

_CONDITIONS._

1. Entrance fee, to defray cost of postage, &c., two guineas.

2. All communications to be written illegibly, and on both sides of
the paper only--not on the edges.

3. The Committee do not bind themselves to accept the lowest or any
tender; or to start at the time advertised in the Company's tables; or
to be in any way responsible for their own actions.

4. Competitors will be prosecuted.

5. A prize of one shilling will be awarded to all competitors who
fail; the winners will be able to make their way in life without
prizes.

6. Human beings and others are not eligible for this competition.

Subject to the above conditions, it is requested that puzzles or
questions may be forwarded to the following solutions:--

_First Solution_.--Twenty-eight, if before March 17th; one hundred and
forty-six, if after that date.

_Second Solution_.--Put six pigs in the first stye; then go back and
fetch the fox from the other side of the river, returning with the
remaining cockatrice. Then put yourself in the second stye, never come
put any more, and subtract.

_Third Solution_.--Positive, Regret; Comparative, Regatta;
Superlative, _Requiescat in pace_.

_Fourth Solution_.--Countesses; because the sun (son) never sets
there.

_Fifth Solution_.--Cut along dotted line to point A. Then fold back,
and cross to point C, keeping mark B on the left. Stop, if you can,
before getting to remark D. Bad language never does any good.

_Sixth Solution_.--This is a mere catch, and only suitable for quite
young children. Of course, it is obvious that the elephant could not
have been on the outside, because there never _are_ two Mondays in the
week. Hush! the Bogie Man. _Exit._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: RATHER LATE IN THE DAY, PERHAPS!

"OH, GRANDPAPA DEAR, SUCH FUN! THE FORTUNE-TELLER'S COME! _DO_ COME
AND HAVE YOUR FORTUNE TOLD!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

JEAMES'S SUMMARY.

_OR, LE MONDE OÙ L'ON S'ENNUIE._

    ["Now that the pageantry and the social stir evoked by the
    presence of the Imperial guests are over, there are few who
    will care to prolong the dreary and disappointing existence
    either of the Season or of the Session."--_The Times_.]

_Jeames loquitur_:--

  _Ya-a-a-w!_ Yes, young man, you've 'it it there, penny-a-liner as
      you may be,
  And knowing, probably, no more about _hus_ than a coster's baby;
  But dull it 'as been, and no kid, and dreary, too, and disappinting;
  Is it this Sosherlistic rot Society is so disjinting,
  The Hinfluenza, or Hard Times, them Hirish, or wotever _is_ it?
  _I_ couldn't 'ave 'eld on at all, I'm sure, but for the HEMP'ROR's visit.
  _Ya-a-a-w!_ 'Ang it, 'ow I've got the gapes! Bring us a quencher, you
      young Buttons!
  And mind it's cool, and with a 'ed! _Hour_ family is reg'lar gluttons
  For "Soshal Stir." The guv'nor, he's a rising Tory M.P., he is.
  And Missis all the Season through as busy as a bloomin' bee is,
  A gathering Fashion's honey up from every hopening flower. _That's_
      natty.
  I _'ave_ a turn for poetry; you're quite right there, my pretty PATTY.
  Lor! 'ow that gal admires these carves! But that's "irrevelant," as
      the sayin' is;
  Master and Missis both complain 'ow dull and slow the game they're
      playin' is.
  The Session? Yah! Give me the days, the dear old days of darling DIZZY!
  With him and GLADSTONE on the job a chap _could_ say "Now we are busy."
  But SMITH's a slug, 'ARCOURT's a hum, and LABBY makes a chap go squirmish.
  Dull as ditchwater the whole thing. One longs e'en for a Hirish skirmish;
  But PARNELL's _fo par_, and his spite, 'ave knocked the sparkle out
      of PADDY.
  No; Parlyment's a played-out fraud, flabby and footy, flat and faddy.
  The Season's similar. Season? Bah? By sech a name it ain't worth
      calling.
  Shoulders like these and carves like those was not _quite_ made for
      pantry-sprawling;
  But wot's the use? Trot myself hout for 'Ebrews, or some tuppenny
      kernel?
  No, not for JEAMES, if he is quite aweer of it! It's just infernal,
  The Vulgar Mix that calls itself Society. All shoddy slyness,
  And moneybags; a "blend" as might kontamernate a Ryal 'Igness,
  Or infry-dig a Hemperor. It won't nick JEAMES though, not percisely;
  Better to flop in solitude than to demean one's self unwisely.
  Won't ketch _me_ selling myself off. I must confess my 'art it 'arrers
  To see the Strorberry-Leaves go cheap--like strorberries on low coster's
      barrers!
  Tuppence a pound! Yes, that's the cry. It's _cheapness_, that Rad fad,
      that's done it.
  Prime fruit _ought_ to be scarce and dear, picked careful, and _kept in
      the punnet_.
  The same with _all_ chice things I 'old, whether 'tis footmen's carves
      or peerages;
  But fools forget that good old rule in this yer queerest of all queer
      ages.
  Trade bad, things in the City tight, no Court worth mentioning, queer
      scandals,
  Socierty inwaded by a lot of jumped-up Goths and Wandals;
  Swell-matches few, gurls' chances poor, late Spring, and lots o' sloppy
      weather,
  With that there Hinfluenza--wich perhaps is wus than all together--
  All over the dashed shop! When was a Season sech a sell as this is?
  Wot wonder that it aggeravates us all, pertikler Me and Missis?
  Ah! But for our "Himperial Guests" the _Times_' young man names with sech
      feeling,
  I don't know wot I _should_ 'ave done. A dismal dulness seems a-stealing
  Afore its time o'er every think; and now Our Guests's gone wot reason,
  As the _Times_ sez, for trying to perlong the Session or the Season?
  _Ya-a-a-w!_ I shall gape my 'ed off 'ere. The Row's a bore, the 'Ouse a
      fetter.
  And now the HEMP'ROR's slung 'is 'ook, the sooner _we_ are horf the better!

       *       *       *       *       *

A LUSUS NATURÆ.--A paragraph in the _P.M.G._, the other day, was
headed, "A Lion Loose in a Circus." Bad enough. But a still more
extraordinary incident would have been _A Lion "tight" in a Circus_.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. CHAUNCY DEPEW, the well-known American barrister, _raconteur_, and
wit, is on his way to England. His visit is on business; probably to
head a Depewtation.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: JEAMES'S SUMMARY.

JEAMES. "DULL SESSION! DULL SEASON!--THINGS BAD IN THE
CITY!--HINFLUENZA ALL HOVER THE SHOP; AND, NOW THE HEMP'ROR'S GONE,
THE SOONER _WE'RE_ HORF THE BETTER!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

A NEW ELECTION "LAY."

  Oh, young Mrs. BRAND has gone down to the East!
  To give the Electors a musical feast,
  And save her fine treble she weapons has none;
  Yet she means with that voice that the seat shall be won.
  So good at a lay, at a ballad so grand,
  There never was dame like the young Mrs. BRAND!

  All boldly she's entered the Cambridgeshire halls,
  'Mid the squires, and the parsons, the farmers, and thralls!
  Said DUNCAN, the foeman, "My friends, on my word,
  Of a stranger proceeding I never have heard.
  I don't wish to be rude, but I _can't_ understand
  What you mean by this singing, oh young Mrs. BRAND!"

  "You need not suspect me," the lady replied;
  "I care not how flows the electoral tide,
  I merely have come down to Wisbech to-day
  To sing a few stanzas, trill one little lay.
  I am tired of long speeches, Home-Rule I can't stand,
  But I _do_ enjoy singing"--quoth young Mrs. BRAND.

  So lovely her voice, so bewitching her grace,
  Such a treat--or such treating:--did never take place.
  While the Primrose Dames fretted, the Unionists fumed,
  She merely the thread of her roundel resumed;
  And the Duncanites whispered--"'Tis most underhand!
  We must send for a songstress to match Mrs. BRAND."

  A change in her theme! She has altered the bar
  To _Kathleen Mavourneen_ and _Erin-go-bragh!_
  Spell-bound stand the rustics; she's won the whole throng!
  To the lady they've given their votes "for a song."
  "'Twill be ours, will the seat--'tis the plot I have planned!
  Oh, Music hath charms!"--exclaimed young Mrs. BRAND.

  There is mourning mid folk of the Wire-pulling Clan;
  Agents, Managers, Chairmen, are wild to a man,
  For the Cambridgeshire precedent means that their calling
  Has passed to the ladies excelling in--squalling!
  "Free teaching" has come, and "Free Music"'s at hand;
  Which we owe to the courage of young Mrs. BRAND.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "JUST A SONG AT TWILIGHT."

(_As sung sweetly by a Public-House-Baritone._)]

       *       *       *       *       *

SMOKED OFF!

(_AN APPEAL FROM THE KNIFE-BOARD OF A CITY OMNIBUS._)

    [The latest complaint of "the Ladies" is that they are being
    "smoked off" the tops of the omnibuses.]

[Illustration]

  The "knife-board," sacred once to broad male feet,
    The "Happy Garden Seat,"
  Invaded now by the non-smoking sex,
    Virginal scruples vex,
  And matronly anathemas assail.
    Alas! and what avail
  Man's immunities of time or place?
    The sweet she-creatures chase
  From all old coigns of vantage harried man.
    In vain, how vain to ban
  Beauty from billiard-room or--Morning Bus
    What use to fume or fuss?
  And yet, and yet indeed it is no joke!
    Where _shall_ one get a smoke
  Without annoying Shes with our cheroots,
    And being badged as "brutes"?
  If a poor fellow may not snatch a whiff
    (Without the feminine sniff)
  Upon the "Bus-roof," where in thunder's name
    _Shall_ he draw that same!
  The ladies, climb, sit, suffocate, and scoff,
    Declare _they_ are "smoked off,"
  Is there no room inside? If smoke means Hades,
    We, "to oblige the ladies,"
  Have taken outside seats this many a year,
    Cold, but with weeds to cheer
  Our macintosh-enswathed umbrella'd bodies;
    Now we are called churl-noddies
  Because we puff the humble briar-root.
    Is man indeed a "brute"
  Because he may upon the knife-board's rack owe
    Some solace to Tobacco?
  If so it be, then man's last, only chance,
    Is in the full advance
  Of the "emancipated" sex. Sweet elves,
    _Pray learn to smoke yourselves!_
  Don't crowd us out, don't snub, and sneer, and sniff,
    But--join us in a whiff!

       *       *       *       *       *

A SHILLING IN THE POUND WISE.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--As the School Board rate has already touched a
shilling, and seems likely to go even higher, why should not some of
our money be expended in teaching the young idea of the lower classes
how to develop into more valuable citizens than they seem likely to
become under present conditions? To carry out this idea, I jot down a
few questions to be put to a School-Board scholar before the granting
of the customary certificates:--

1. Describe the formation of a Regiment, and explain its position and
duties in Brigade.

2. What are the duties of a Special Constable?

3. How would you set about putting horses into a fire-engine?

4. Describe the process of resuscitating a person apparently drowned.
How would you revive a person rendered insensible by (1) cold, (2) by
sunstroke.

5. Give simple remedies to be applied at once in case of bites by a
mad dog, accidental poisoning by arsenic, and swallowing of spurious
coin.

6. How would you set, (1) a leg, (2) an arm, (3) a broken finger? If a
man is run over by a Hansom, what should you do? Describe an excellent
substitute for a litter, when you can obtain nothing better.

7. State shortly what you consider your duty would be, (1) were the
country invaded, (2) were London in the hands of the mob, (3) were
your neighbourhood visited by fire, and decimated by the plague.

There, _Mr. Punch_, if every School-Board scholar could supply
satisfactory answers to the above questions, I would not grudge
my shilling in the pound--nay, possibly look with equanimity on
eighteenpence!--Yours, cordially,

ONE WHO IS SCHOOL-BORED.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: CRICKET AT LORD'S. THE LUNCHEON-TIME.

(_By Our Special Instantaneous Photographic Caricaturist._)]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "URBI ET ORBI."

MR. PUNCH RETURNS HIS BEST THANKS TO ALL AND SINGULAR, THE PUBLIC AND
THE PRESS, FOR THE ENTHUSIASTIC RECEPTION WITH WHICH THE TOAST OF HIS
JUBILEE, EVERYWHERE AND BY EVERYBODY, HAS BEEN RECEIVED. TO EVERYONE
HEALTH AND HAPPINESS, PEACE AND PROSPERITY.

PUNCH.]

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Monday, July_ 13. Emperor WILLIAM leaves to-day
having taken affectionate farewell of Grandmamma. On the whole been
most successful visit. Weather a little Frenchy in its tendency,
but not all rain and thunder. If things could only have been kept
comfortable to last moment there need have been nothing to mar success
of event. Unfortunately, TANNER's active brain discovered opportunity
of casting a stone at head of departing EMPEROR. Looking in at
Charing Cross Telegraph Office, intending to send sixpenny-worth
of genial remark to his late esteemed Leader PARNELL on result of
Carlow election, TANNER observed "Gutknecht" on shaft of lead pencil
gratuitously provided. Much puzzled at this; thought at first it was
RAIKES's way of spelling good night; found on inquiry it was German.

TANNER's patriotic bosom filled with storm of indignation. "What!"
he cried, apostrophising the absent RAIKES, "at a time when trade is
declining, Ireland is unhappy, strikes are rampant, and human misery
seems to have reached its bitterest point, at such a time it might be
hoped you would have given up your days and nights to ameliorating
the common lot, instead of which you go about importing lead pencils
made in Germany, and so taking the very bread out of the mouth of the
British Workman."

Might have asked question on subject a week ago when he made
discovery; adroitly put it down for to-night; and so whilst Emperor
WILLIAM was taking leave of Grandmamma in the stately halls of
Windsor, TANNER was flinging a lead pencil at his retreating figure,
stabbing him, so to speak, in the Imperial back with a commercial
product retailed at the inconsiderable price of twopence-halfpenny a
dozen.

With some sense of relief House got into Committee of Supply. Various
questions brought up on Colonial Vote. P. and O. SUTHERLAND championed
claims of Singapore for deliverance from arbitrary conduct of
Government in levying military contributions. Doesn't often take
part in Debate; showed to-night that abstention is not due to lack of
debating faculty. Set forth case of his clients in clear business-like
speech, which commanded attention of audience, for whom topic itself
not particularly attractive.

[Illustration: "A Bad Sixpence."]

"SUTHERLAND," said the Member for Sark, one of his most attentive
listeners, "has introduced a new element into Parliamentary oratory.
His intercurrent cough is the most remarkable adjunct to oratory I
ever heard. Suppose the fact is, when he pauses, he is thinking over
the next word, or surveying for a new line of argument. Other men
would consult their notes. P. and O. indulges in a kind of clearing
of his throat, a compromise between a cough and an articulate
remark--commanding, conciliatory, threatening, beseeching, or
convincing, according as the exigencies of the moment require. As a
work of art, the only contemporary thing equal to it that I know, and
that, of course, in quite a different way, is some of the bye-play of
the old gentleman in _L'Enfant Prodigue_."

_Business done_.--In Committee of Supply.

_Tuesday_.--Met CHAPLIN just now, striding along corridor, mopping his
statesmanlike brow with a bandana that would, on emergency, serve as
foresail for one of the cattle-carrying steamers just now troubling
the Minister for Agriculture.

"Anything gone wrong?" I asked, for it was impossible to be blind to
his evident trepidation.

"No, dear boy, it's all right as it turns out, but it might have
been otherwise. What do you think? LABBY's positively been moving the
reduction of the Vote by the amount of my salary! Shouldn't have been
surprised if some Member had got up, and, in neat speech, dilating
on the enormous forward strides made by the Empire since Ministry
of Agriculture was created, moved to double my screw. But to go and
propose to dock it altogether at the end of the first year is, if I
may say so, not encouraging."

"Oh," I said, "you mustn't mind SAGE of QUEEN ANNE'S GATE; his bark is
worse than his bite."

"Yes, I know," said CHAPLIN; "but I should be obliged to him if he'd
bark at someone else's heels. Not, mind you, that I care so much
about the money question. Between you and me (though don't let it go
further, or they might be holding me to my bargain), I would rather
pay £2000 a year than not have a seat on the Treasury Bench in charge
of a department. You've never tasted the delight of standing up in
a full House and reading out answer to a question, whilst all the
world hangs on your lips. Nor have you ever drunk the deep delight of
explaining a Bill, or replying on behalf of HER MAJESTY's Government
to an Amendment. The joy is all the greater to me, since it is newly
acquired. For years I sat below the Gangway, striving to catch the
SPEAKER's eye in competition with the herd, and when I succeeded
Members either howled at me or left the House. Now I speak without
waiting for the SPEAKER's call, and the House listens attentively to
the utterances of the Minister for Agriculture. That's better than
salary paid quarterly: worth paying for as I say. Still it's not
pleasant to have LABBY seriously proposing to stop your wages. Wish
he'd try it on someone else. There's PLUNKET for example; must put him
up in that quarter."

_Business done_.--In Committee of Supply.

[Illustration: A Salmon Fisher.]

_Thursday_.--A long dull night varied by occasional squalls. An
immense relief to Hon. Members, after sitting through an hour
discussing Alienation of Crown Rights in Salmon Fishing in Scotland,
on which CALDWELL delivers discourse, to have opportunity of
exercising their lungs. MORTON a benefactor in this respect. As soon
as ALPHEUS CLEOPHAS is discovered on his feet there goes forth a
howl that shakes the building. To-night rather awkward circumstance
followed. ALPHEUS CLEOPHAS rising for the eighth time, Members broke
forth into agonised howl that lasted several minutes. Was stopped
by sudden commotion at the Bar. Engineer PRIM rushed wildly in,
gesticulating towards the astonished Chair, and disappeared. A body of
workmen appearing mysteriously from depths beneath House, tumultuously
crossed the doorway, and also vanished. Presently news came that flood
of water was raging down staircase; gradually truth got at; a large
water-main had burst in Upper Committee Corridor; cracked at startling
sound of outburst upon ALPHEUS CLEOPHAS's re-appearance.

"This is all very well," said PLUNKET. "I am myself no enthusiastic
admirer of MORTON's Parliamentary eloquence. Still, as First
Commissioner of Works, I feel this thing must be discouraged. Must
draw the line somewhere. Can't have our water-mains bursting with
vicarious indignation because MORTON would speak eight times in
Committee of Supply."

_Business done_.--Committee of Supply.

_Friday_.--In Lords to-night, STANLEY OF ALDERLEY, L.C.C., gave fresh
advertisement to CALDERON's picture, "_St. Elizabeth of Hungary._"
Not a pleasant subject, from any point of view, artistic or moral.
Everybody but well-meaning people like STANLEY OF ALDERLEY, glad to
drop it. He brings it forward at this late day; tries to make the
MARKISS responsible for whole business. The MARKISS protests that
STANLEY has had the advantage of him; hasn't even seen the picture.
"The only idea I have been able to form of it," he said to delighted
House, "is derived from a picture in _Punch_, in which _ZÆO_ is
showing her back to the Members of the County Council." Lords don't
often indulge in hearty laughter; this too much for them, and STANLEY
OF ALDERLEY temporarily extinguished, amid almost uproarious mirth.

_Business done_.--Supply in Commons.

       *       *       *       *       *

HIT AND MISS.

    [At Bisley, Miss LEALE, of Guernsey, has shot with
    considerable success. Miss LEALE, though only nineteen years
    old, is a shooting member of the National Rifle Association,
    and has won several prizes at the meetings of the Guernsey
    Rifle Association.]

  The Whirligig of Time! Its latest turn see
  In this phenomenon who hails from Guernsey.
  We've often met, at pic-nics or at dances,
  Young ladies who were good at shooting--glances!
  And glances that, alas! have often filled us
  With tender feelings, if they have not killed us.
  We've met fair maidens, who have found it pleasant
  To tramp the moors for grouse, or shoot at pheasant;
  Of some indeed who've had a go at grisly;
  But never--until now--of one at Bisley.
  Yet there she is, and whilst her sisters, sitting
  At home, may spend their leisure time in knitting,
  _She_ sits and shoots, nor does she very far get
  From where she aims, the centre of the target.
  Take off your hats to her as now we name her,--Miss
  LEALE, of Guernsey! Gladly we acclaim her
  For Womankind (triumphant in the Schools) high
  Renown henceforth will look for in the bull's-eye,
  And, tired of tennis, having quite with thimble done,
  Will strive for laurels at the Modern Wimbledon!

       *       *       *       *       *

MONTI THE MATADOR.

(_ORIGINALLY INTENDED FOR THE F-RTN-GHTLY R-V-W._)

"Yes, I'm better, and the Doctor tells me I've escaped once more.
That Doctor hates you--I know it. He has saved me--to tell you the
story--The story _I_ have been trying to tell to some one for thirty
years."

I was talking to Old MONTI, whose full name was MONTI DI PIETA--as a
pledge of his respectability. He was a descendant of the Pornbrocheros
del Treballos d'Oro. He was subsequently called Monkey--as a tribute
to his character.

"I should like you to tell me," I said, "for you must know that for
years I have seen the snows on the Lagartigo, and the moonlight on
the--"

"Stop!" he cried--"you are going to begin padding. That will do for a
magazine, not for me!" and he snapped his fingers at me.

But I was not to be put off. He was weak--a cripple--and I gave him
the choice of listening to a personally-conducted tour in the South of
Spain, or relating his adventures.

"I will have my revenge!" he muttered. "You shall hear my life from
the beginning. You must know, then, that sixty years ago I was born,
and--"

"Yes," I returned, interrupting him--"of poor parents. Your father
was coarse, your mother pious. You learned all you could about bulls,
which you kept from your father, and you were ultimately engaged as a
bull-fighter--"

"Stop, stop!" he cried. "If you cut out about a dozen pages of my
biography, at least let me explain how I saved my father. You must
know--"

"I will do it for you in a line," I said, sharply. "Your father lost
his temper, and tried bullying the bull (no joke), and you winked
at the animal. He knew you, and stood still. The bull went for your
father--you for the bull. Drive on!"

"Let me tell you then, how I prepared myself for the Ring by
practising on a dummy bull.--I had no difficulty in sticking pins into
it--it was quite calm. Then I tried the same game on a sheep, and
got knocked down for my pains! One of my monkey tricks! Then I got
acquainted with some Irish bulls, and letting them off on my friends
got several thumps on the head."

"No," I interrupted him sternly, "get on with your story."

"Well, at length I met JUAN at the beginning of May."

"Make it first of April," I said, severely.

"He was the Toreador out of _Carmen_, to put it shortly," he
continued, not deigning to notice my interruption--"and he introduced
me to the bull-fight. Of course I had to pay my footing (a very
uncertain one) in _duros_, or hard cash. Then every morning I ate a
_chuto_ (a sort of small cabbage) at my dinner--then they tried me as
a _capa_, to test (so they said) my capability. The chief patron was
the Duke of MEDICINA, who in early youth had been a doctor--hence his
title--and I shall never forget his first greeting."

"Your story!" I interrupted, sternly, finding that the old man was
once more becoming tedious.

"I returned," replied the dotard, with a senile chuckle, "that he was
wrong. His answer was beyond my meaning--he muttered something about
'mutton and _capa_ sauce.' I was engaged," continued the dotard, with
a feeble grin, "as a _capa_ for seventy years certain, with an annual
benefit once in four years, with a salary of forty-two thousand a
year--which in those days seemed to me to be a small fortune."

[Illustration: "They made an Idol of me."]

"They are wretchedly paid in Spain," I observed.

"They are," he acquiesced. "I was paid a week in advance, and have
lived upon the proceeds ever since. And now my life was indeed a merry
one. I was free of the Ring. Now I played the cornet in the _Brassos
Banderillos_, and my performance pleased the _aficionados_ (or
advertising agents) so well, that my name was known throughout the
Peninsula."

"Well," once more I interrupted, "I suppose you met a Spanish beauty,
fell in love with her, and was cut out by a party of the name of
JUAN?"

"However do you think of such clever things?" asked the old man, in a
tone of extreme astonishment. "But you are right. I placed CLEMENCIA
one day in the _pal co_ (or part reserved for friends), and the bull
tossed me. Ah, she trampled upon me--treated me like a mat. But I
loved her and adored myself. Hence I was called a 'Mat-Adorer.' I
repeat, the bull tossed me, and I did not come down heads."

"Go on."

"I was ill, and neglected, but soon recovered sufficiently to kill
sixty-six bulls in succession."

"Surely you are exaggerating?"

"You are perfectly right," he answered, with a blush. "I killed
sixty-five--the sixty-sixth was only mortally wounded. And now the
people made an idol of me. I was absolutely worshipped"--

"Come to the point," I said, in a tone that showed I was not to be
trifled with.

"No _that_ was the fate of JUAN. At the end of a game of _toros_
(which is Spanish for marbles) he said to me (in excellent Spanish),
'MONTI, me bhoy, philaloo! ye will shtay by me?' 'That will I--as
shure as me name is TIM--I should say MONTI,' I responded, in choice
Castilian. The bull came up, I looked him in the eye, raised my
_shillalo_ (a short Spanish club), and, crying 'Whist!' he cut for
partners. JUAN was cut a deal."

"That bull was a ripper," I murmured.

"Bedad he was that, Sorr," returned the dotard, whose Spanish became
more and more Castilian every moment. "CLEMENICA died the next
morning. But I am remorseful--that I did not kill her myself. And
now I have had my revenge! I have told ye the story! I know you--your
name's H-A-R-"--

He gave a gasp and died.

But I too had _my_ revenge. I sent the tale I had just heard to the
_F-rtn-ghtly R-v-w_.

M.F.H.

       *       *       *       *       *

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.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 101, July 25, 1891" ***

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