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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, February 6, 1892
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 102, February 6, 1892" ***

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



PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 102.



February 6, 1892.



[Illustration: "A GOOD STAYER."

THE DEALER SAID, "THE MARE COULD STAY FOR EVER." SHE SEEMED INCLINED
TO DO SO WHEN JONES WISHED TO BE AFTER THE HOUNDS.]

       *       *       *       *       *

RECEIPT AGAINST INFLUENZA.

DEAR SIR,--I send you this gratis. It is for everybody's benefit,

Yours. GEORGE GUZZLETON, X.M.D.

P.S.--I give "_Coenæ prescriptionem_" only, as the "_Prescrip:
prandialis_" can be taken out of this with variations.

  Ostr: frigid:                       1½ doz.
  Pisc: anima: locus aut quid: ali:   [=a][=a][=a] xvi [dram]
  Cum: pom: terr: fervesc:            f 8[dram]
  Ad Hoc: bib: sextarium              ½ mx.
  Ovem: torrid:                       [ounce]ss.
      virides: ad. lib.
  Per: dix: anas: agrestis:   }       f[dram]ij.
    Condim: pan: aut aliquid: }       fvijss.
  Prunosus: botulus:                  [=a][=a]f [dram]vj.
    Condim: prand: aut lact: Devonii: f 3 j.

  Liq. Pomm: et Gr: '84       }
  Aut Mo: et Chand: '84       }       Oj 4

_Fiat haust: sec: vel test: quâque horâ: extra horâ coenæ: regulariter
sumendum._

_Si opus sit_: Misce: aq: sodæ .. [dram]1/14.

_Misce: ot: grog: h.s.s. Si opus sit aut non._

       *       *       *       *       *

LITERARY GARDENING.--A Correspondent, signing himself "STULTUS IN
HORTU OR HORT-U-NOT?" writes, "Please, Sir, if my boy JOHN plant 'a
slip of a pen,' what will it come up?" _Answer paid_--A Jonquill.

       *       *       *       *       *

TO THE QUEEN.

(_FROM THE NATION._)

  Queenly as womanly, those words that start
  From sorrow's lip strike home to sorrow's heart.
    Madam, our griefs are one;
  But yours, from kinship close and your high place,
  The keener, mourning him in youth's glad grace
    Who loved you as a son.

  We mourn him too. Our wreaths of votive flowers
  Speak, mutely, for us. The deep gloom that lowers
    To-day across the land
  Is no mere pall of ceremonial grief.
  'Tis hard in truth, though reverent belief
    Bows to the chastening hand.

  Hard--for his parents, that young bride, and you,
  Bearer of much bereavement, woman true,
    And patriotic QUEEN!
  We hear the courage striking through the pain,
  As always in your long, illustrious reign,
    Which shrinking ne'er hath seen,--

  Shrinking from high-strung duty, the brave way
  Of an imperial spirit. So to-day
    Your People bow--in pride.
  The sympathy of millions is your own.
  May Glory long be guardian of your Throne,
    Love ever at its side!

       *       *       *       *       *

ENTIRELY UNSOLICITED TESTIMONIAL.--_Dartmoor_.--Gentlemen,--Two years
ago I wrote somebody else's name with one of your pens. Since then I
have used no other.

Yours faithfully, A.F. ORGER. "To Messrs. STEAL, KNIBBS & CO."

       *       *       *       *       *

"LA GRIPPE."

[Illustration]

    ("_I'm a devil! I'm a devil!" croaked Barnaby Rudge's Raven
    'Grip': And this is a raven-mad sort of Edgar-Allan-Poem by Un
    qui est Grippé._)

  Once upon a midnight dreary
  Coming home I felt so weary,
  Felt, oh! many a pain; so curious,
    Which I'd never felt before.
  Then to bed,--no chance of napping,
  Blankets, rugs about me wrapping,
    Feverish burning pains galore.
  "Oh! I've got it! oh!" I muttered,
    "Influenza!! what a bore!!"
    _Only_ this!!--Oh!!--Nothing more!!

  Oh! my head and legs are aching!
  Now I'm freezing! Now I'm baking!
  Clockwork in my cerebellum!
    Oh! all over me I'm sore!
  In my bed I'm writhing, tossing,
  Yet I'm in a steamer, crossing.
  While KIRALFY's Venice bossing,
    I'm "against" and RUSSELL "for"
  In a case about the _Echo_,
    Somewhere out at Singapore!
    It's delirium!!! Nothing more.

  Then a Doctor comes in tapping
  Me all over, tapping, rapping.
  And with ear so close and curious
    Pressed to stethoscope, "Once more,"
  Says he, "sing out ninety-ninely,
  Now again! You do it finely!
  Yes! Not bigger than a wine lee,
    There's the mischief, there's the _corps_
  Of the insect that will kill us,
  Hiding there is the Bacillus;
    Only _that_, and nothing more!"

  "Why's he here with fear to fill us?
  Will he leave me, this Bacillus?
  Not one bone do I feel whole in,
    And of strength I've lost my store."
  Thus I to the Doctor talking,
  Ask "When shall I go out walking"?
  He, my earnest queries baulking,
    Says, "When all this trouble's o'er,"
  "Monday? Tuesday? Wednesday? Thursday
    Friday? Saturday? Sunday? or
    In a week?" "Um!--not before."

  "Doctor!" cried I, "catch this evil
  Fiend! Bacillus!! Microbe!! devil!!
  Second syllable in Tem-pest!
    Send him to Plutonian Shore.
  Send him back to where he came from,
  To the place he gets his fame from,
  To the place he takes his name from;
    Kick him out of my front door!"
  So the Doctor feels my pulse, and,
    As I drop upon the floor,
    Quoth the Doctor, "Some days more."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "OUT IN THE COLD!"

"I AM LIKE A TRAVELLER LOST IN THE SNOW, WHO BEGINS TO GET STIFF WHILE
THE SNOWFLAKES COVER HIM."

_Speech of Prince Von Bismarck at Friedrichsruhe._]

       *       *       *       *       *

"OUT IN THE COLD!"

    ["I am like a traveller lost in the snow, who begins to get
    stiff and to sink down while the snowflakes cover him. In
    fact, I am gradually losing interest in politics, but the
    feeling, like that of the traveller sinking under the snow,
    is a pleasant one."--_Prince Bismarck to the Deputation of
    Leipsic Students_.]

AIR--"_Excelsior_!"

  The century was waning fast,
  As through a wintry waste there passed
  A man, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
  A banner with the strange device,
            Excel no more!

  His brows were blanched; his eye beneath
  Flashed like a falchion from its sheath;
  Red fields had heard his armour clang.
  But now he smiled and softly sang,
            Excel no more!

  In barracks huge he saw the might
  Of mailed hosts arrayed for fight;
  Afar the fierce Frank bayonets shone,
  And from his lips escaped a moan,
            Excel no more!

  "Think of the Past!" the young men said,
  "Like SAUL you towered by the head
  Midst those three Titans, Prussia's pride!"
  Softly that once stern voice replied,
            "Excel no more!"

  "Oh, stay," the young men cried, "and mix
  Once more in Teuton Politics!"
  "Nay," said the Titan, "I grow old,
  And, like poor TOM, I am a-cold!
            Excel no more!"

  "Beware the snow-encumbered branch!
  Beware the whelming avalanche!"
  "Thanks!" he replied. "I know, I know.
  But--well, I rather like the snow!
            Excel no more!"

  "Lost in the snow! An easy death!
  Gentle surcease of mortal breath!
  I sink, I stiffen, I'm foredone!
  The feeling though's a pleasant one;
            Excel no more!"

  The traveller by his faithful hound
  Half-buried in the snow was found,
  Still muttering from a mouth of ice
  That banner's late and strange device,
            Excel no more!

  There in the snow-drift cold and grey,
  Silent, but stalwart, still he lay,
  Great "Blood-and-Iron," brave and bold,
  But--for the nonce--"Out in the Cold!"
            Excel no more?

       *       *       *       *       *

PARLIAMENT IN SPORT;

_OR, A MEETING IN EARNEST._

    ["Perhaps the popularity of the competition in national sport
    between the different parts of the Empire is worthy of the
    serious attention of statesmen ... Mr. ASTLEY COOPER proposes
    rowing, running and cricket ... There is something fascinating
    in the idea of such a Pan-Britannic gathering."--_Daily
    Paper_.]

The SPEAKER, having taken his seat in the Pavilion, the Minister for
Cricket rose to move the third reading of The Six-balls-to-an-over
Bill.

The Right Hon. Gentleman said that the amount of time wasted in
changing sides, although the field did their best to minimise the
loss by assuming a couple of positions alternately, was very
serious--especially in a first-class match.

The Member for Melbourne begged to ask what _was_ a first-class match?

The Member for Sydney replied, certainly not a match between Canada
and Victoria. (_Laughter.)_ Now everyone was aware that New South
Wales--("_Question! Order! Order!")_ He begged pardon, he was in
order.

The SPEAKER. I really must request silence. The Minister for Cricket
is introducing a most important measure, and the least we can do is to
receive his statement with adequate attention. (_General cheering_.)

The Minister for Cricket continued, and said that the measure he had
the honour to commend to their careful consideration would not only
lengthen the over, but also allow Cricket to be played all the year
round.

The Minister for Football begged to remind his Right Hon. friend
that he had promised to consider that matter in Committee. What would
become of Football were Cricket to be played continuously? ("_Hear,
hear_!")

The Member for Bombay thought that a matter of no moment. In India
Polo was of infinitely more importance than Football, and he could
not help remarking that, in the Imperial Parliament, representing so
many sports, and so many Colonies, where every great interest was
represented, and well represented, Polo was absolutely ignored.
(_Cheers.)_

The Minister for Aquatic Sports agreed with the Hon. Member. Polo was
entirely of sufficient interest to warrant the creation of a special
department for its guardianship. But at present he was responsible for
it. He hoped soon to be able to welcome a colleague who would make its
interests his continual study. (_"Hear, hear!"_)

The Minister for Cricket concluded by thanking the House for the
attention the Hon. Members had given to the subject, and sat down
amidst loud applause.

A division being taken, the Bill was carried by 127 to 96. The
majority were composed of Australians and Canadians, and the minority
were Africans, Indians, and miscellaneous Colonists. The House then
adjourned.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: TRUTHFUL BUT NOT CONSCIENTIOUS.

_Elderly Dowager_. "Now, PERKINS, I REQUIRE YOUR HONEST OPINION. DON'T
YOU THINK THIS DRESS SUITS ME?"

_Perkins (who has been cautioned always to speak the truth, on pain of
losing her place, warily_). "OH YES, MY LADY, IT SUITS YOUR LADYSHIP
QUITE--AS ONE MAY SAY--QUITE 'DOWN TO THE GROUND!'"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

NO. XXV.

    SCENE--_Near Torcello. CULCHARD and PODBURY are seated
    side by side in the gondola, which is threading its way
    between low banks, bright with clumps of Michaelmas daisies
    and pomegranate-trees laden with red fruit. Both CULCHARD
    and PODBURY are secretly nervous and anxious for
    encouragement._

_Podbury_ (_humming "In Old Madrid" with sentiment_).
La-doodle-um-La-doodle-oo: La-doodle-um-te-dumpty-loodle-oo! I think
she rather seemed to like me--those first days at Brussels, don't
_you_?

_Culchard_ (_absently_). Did she? I daresay. (_Whistling "The
Wedding March" softly_.) Few-fee; di-fee-fee-few-few;
few-fiddledy-fee-fiddledy-few-few-few-fee. I fancy I'm right in my
theory, eh?

_Podb._ Oh, I should say so--yes. _What_ theory?

_Culch._ (_annoyed_). What theory? Why, the one I've been explaining
to you for the last ten minutes!--that all this harshness of hers
lately is really, when you come to analyse it, a decidedly encouraging
symptom.

_Podb._ But I shouldn't nave said Miss TROTTER was exactly _harsh_ to
me--lately, at all events.

_Culch._ (_with impatience_). Miss TROTTER! You! What an egotist you
are, my dear fellow! I was referring to myself and Miss PRENDERGAST.
And you can't deny that, both at Nuremberg and Constance, she--

_Podb._ (_with careless optimism_). Oh, _she_'ll come round all right,
never fear. I only wish I was half as safe with Miss TROTTER!

_Culch._ (_mollified_). Don't be too downhearted, my dear PODBURY. I
happen to know that she likes you--she told me as much last night. Did
Miss PRENDERGAST--er--say anything to that effect about _me_?

_Podb._ Well,--not exactly, old chap--not to me, at least. But I say,
Miss TROTTER didn't tell you _that_? Not _really_? Hooray! Then it's
all right--she may have me, after all!

_Culch._ (_chillingly_). I should advise you not to be over confident.
(_A silence follows, which endures until they reach the landing-steps
at Torcello._) They _are_ here, you see--those are evidently their
gondolas, I recognise those two cloaks. Now the best thing _we_ can do
is to separate.

_Podb._ (_springing out_). Right you are! (_To himself._) I'll draw
the church first, and see if she's there. (_Approaches the door of
Santa Maria: a Voice within, apparently reading aloud: "Six balls, or
rather almonds, of purple marble veined with white are set around the
edge of the pulpit, and form its only decoration"_) HYPATIA, by Jove!
Narrow shave that! [_He goes round to back._

_Culch._ (_comes up to the door_). I know I shall find her here. Lucky
I know that Torcello chapter in "The Stones" very nearly by heart!
(_Reaches threshold. A Voice within. "Well, I guess I'm going to climb
up and sit in that old amphitheatre there, and see how it feels!"_)
Good heavens,--_MAUD_! and I was as nearly as possible--I think I'll
go up to the top of the Campanile and see if I can't discover where
HYPATIA is.

    [_He ascends the tower._

    _In the Belfry._

_Podb._ (_arriving breathless, and finding CULCHARD craning eagerly
forward_). Oh, so _you_ came up too? Well, can you _see_ her?

_Culch._ Ssh! She's just turned the corner! (_Vexed._) She's with Miss
TROTTER!... They're sitting down on the grass below!

_Podb._ Together? That's a nuisance! Now we shall have to wait till
they separate--sure to squabble, sooner or later.

_Miss T.'s Voice_ (_which is perfectly audible above_). I guess we'll
give RUSKIN a rest now, HYPATIA. I'm dying for a talk. I'm just as
enchanted as I can be to hear you've dismissed Mr. PODBURY. And I
expect you can guess _why_.

_Podb._ (_in a whisper_). I say, CULCHARD, they're going to talk about
us. Ought we to listen, eh? Better let them know we're here?

_Culch._ I really don't see any necessity--however--(_Whistles
feebly._) Feedy-feedy-feedle!

[Illustration: "Hypatia, by Jove!"]

_Podb._ What is the use of fustling like that? (_Yödels._) Lul-li-ety!

_Miss P.'s V._ Well, my dear MAUD, I confess that I--

_Culch._ It's quite impossible to make them hear down there, and it's
no fault of ours if their voices reach us occasionally. And it
_does_ seem to me, PODBURY, that, in a matter which may be of
vital importance to me--to us both--it would be absurd to be
over-scrupulous. But of course you will please yourself. _I_ intend to
remain where I am.

    [_PODBURY makes a faint-hearted attempt to go, but ends by
    resigning himself to the situation._

_Miss T.'s V._ Now, HYPATIA PRENDERGAST, don't tell _me_ you're not
interested in him! And he's more real suited to you than ever Mr.
PODBURY was. Now, isn't that _so_?

_Culch._ (_withdrawing his head_). Did you hear, PODBURY? She's
actually pleading for me! _Isn't_ she an angel? Be quiet, now. I must
hear the answer!

_Miss P.'s V._ I--I don't know, really. But, MAUD, I want to speak to
you about--Somebody. You can't think how he adores you, poor fellow! I
have noticed it for a long time.

_Podb._ (_beaming_). CULCHARD! You heard? She's putting in a word for
me. What a brick that girl is!

_Miss T.'s V._ I guess he's pretty good at concealing his feelings,
then. He's been keeping far enough away!

_Miss P.'s V._ That was _my_ fault. I _kept_ him by me. You see, I
believed you had quite decided to accept Mr. CULCHARD.

_Miss T.'s V._ Well, it does strike me that, considering he was
adoring me all this time, he let himself be managed tolerable easy.

    [_PODBURY shakes his head in protestation._

_Miss P.'s V._ Ah, but let me explain. I could only keep him quiet
by threatening to go home by myself, and dear BOB is such a devoted
brother that--

_Podb._ Brother! I say. CULCHARD, she can't be meaning _BOB_ all this
time! She _can't_! Can she now?

_Culch._ How on earth can _I_ tell? If it is so, you must be a
philosopher, my dear fellow, and bear it--that's all.

_Miss P.'s V._ That _does_ alter the case, doesn't it? And I may tell
him there's some hope for him? You mustn't judge him by what he is
with his friend, Mr. PODBURY. BOB has such a _much_ stronger and finer
character!

_Miss T.'s V._ Oh well, if he couldn't stand up more on his edge than
Mr. PODBURY! Not that I mind Mr. PODBURY any, there's no harm in him,
but he's too real frivolous to amount to much.

_Podb._ (_collapsing_). Frivolous! From _her_ too! Oh, hang it _all_!

    [_He buries his head in his hands with a groan._

_Miss T.'s V._ Well, see here, HYPATIA. I'll take your brother on
trial for a spell, to oblige you--there. I cann't say more at present.
And now--about the other. I want to know just how you feel about him.

_Culch._ The _other_!--that's Me! I wish to goodness you wouldn't make
all that noise, PODBURY, just when it's getting interesting!

_Miss P.'s V._ (_very low_). What is the good? Nothing will bring him
back--_now_!

_Culch._ Nothing? How little she knows me!

_Miss T.'s V._ I hope you don't consider _me_ nothing. And a word from
me would bring him along pretty smart. The only question is, whether
I'm to say it or not?

_Miss P.'s V._ (_muffled_). Dar-ling!

_Culch._ I really think I might almost venture to go down, now, eh,
PODBURY? (_No answer._) Selfish brute! [_Indignantly._

_Miss T.'s V._ But mind this--if he comes, you've got to care for him
the whole length of your boa--you won't persuade him to run in couples
with anybody else. That's why he broke away the first time--and you
were ever so mad with me because you thought I was at the bottom
of it. But it was all his pride. He's too real independent to share
chances with anybody alive.

_Culch._ How thoroughly she understands me!

_Miss T.'s V._ And I guess CHARLEY will grow out of the great Amurrcan
Novel in time--it's not going ever to grow out of _him_, anyway!

_Culch._ (_bewildered_). CHARLEY? I don't see why she should mention
VAN BOODELER _now_!

_Miss T.'s V._ I like CHARLEY ever so much, and I'm not going to have
him cavort around along with a circus of suitors under vows. So, if I
thought there was any chance of--well, say Mr. CULCHARD--

_Miss P.'s V._ (_indignant_). MAUD! how _can_ you? That odious
hypocritical creature! If you knew how I despised and--!

_Miss T.'s V._ Well, my dear, he's pretty paltry--but we'll let him go
at that--I guess his shares have gone down considerable all round.

_Culch._ PODBURY, I--I--this conversation is evidently not intended
for--for other--ears. I don't know whether _you_ have heard enough,
_I_ shall go down!

_Podb._ (_with a ghastly chuckle_). Like your shares, eh, old chap?
And mine too, for that matter. Well, _I'm_ ready enough to go. Only,
for goodness' sake, let's get away without being seen!

    [_They slip softly down the series of inclined planes, and out
    to the steps, where they re-embark. As their gondola pushes
    off, Mr. TROTTER and BOB PRENDERGAST appear from the
    Museum._

_Mr. T._ Why, land sakes! ain't that Mr. PODBURY and Mr. CULCHARD? Hi!
You ain't ever going away? There's my darter and Miss HYPATIA around
somewhere.--They'll be dreadful disappointed to have missed you!

_Podb._ (_with an heroic attempt at cheeriness_). We--we're awfully
disappointed to have missed _them_, Mr. TROTTER. Afraid we can't stop
now! Goodbye!

    [_CULCHARD pulls his hat-brim over his eyes and makes a sign
    to the gondoliers to get on quickly; Mr. TROTTER comments
    with audible astonishment on their departure to BOB, who
    preserves a discreet silence._

       *       *       *       *       *

A PALMY DAY AT ST. RAPHAEL.

_Villa Magali._--Delicious climate! STUART-RENDEL says it "reminds
him of Devonshire, without the damp." Mention of Devonshire reminds
_me_ of the DUKE. Try to point out to my friends that the Rossendale
Election shows conclusively--Curious! Friends all get up and go out!
Seems that ANDREW CLARKE specially told them I was to "avoid all
excitement, over-exertion, and talk about politics!" Wish CLARKE would
not be so unreasonable. _Must_ talk about Rossendale to somebody.

_Off to Hyères_--to see CHILDERS. Find CHILDERS tolerably chatty.
Doesn't seem to care so much about Rossendale result as I should have
expected. STUART-RENDEL comes to fetch me. Ahem! Off.

_At Monte Carlo._--Feel so well, have looked in here. Meet WELLS, the
"Champion Plunger." Asks me if I've got a system; he's "been losing
heavily, and would be glad of any hint." Suggest his putting on the
numbers of Rossendale Majority. WELLS seems pleased at idea. Does so
at once, and loses 10,000 francs straight off. Meet him in grounds
afterwards, and try to explain real significance of Rossendale
election. WELLS disappears. Curious! _Can_ ANDREW CLARKE have got at
WELLS?

_Golfe San Juan._--French war-ships in Bay. Admiral might like to know
my views on Rossendale and politics generally. Taken on board. Admiral
much interested in MADEN's victory. Admiral asks if it was the "_Grand
Prix_" that MADEN won? Find he thinks MADEN is a horse. Disappointing.
[_Query_--ANDREW CLARKE again?] Sent on shore in boat, amid cheers
from sailors. Gratifying.

_Back to St. Raphael._--Tired, but on the whole gratified with my day.
Friends pained to hear what I've done, and threaten to telegraph for
Sir ANDREW! Shall pack up and return. Letter from MORLEY begging me to
stay where I am. Odd! Can Sir ANDREW have got at JOHN MORLEY? Bed, and
think it over.

       *       *       *       *       *

BROTHER BRUSH, A.R.A.--Stan' up, STANHOPE FORBES! and receive our
congratulations on your election. STAN-HOPE deferred maketh the
painter's 'art sick of waiting, and now A FORBES, not _The_ FORBES
(which his name is JAMES STAATS, C.L.C. & D.R., &c., &c.), but the
STANHOPE A-foresaid, has obtained his first grade. With what pleasure
will the Art-loving Chairman see his STANHOPE "on the line!" In
Burlington House, of course we mean, as elsewhere, the situation would
be one of no slight danger.

       *       *       *       *       *

"PLEASED AS PUNCH."--A paragraph in the _D.T._ informed _Mr. P._
and the public generally, that "Dr. ROBSON ROOSE and Mr. ALLINGHAM
are contented with Mr. EDWARD LAWSON's progress." "If Box"--"And
Cox"--"are satisfied," then of all Mr. E.L.'s friends in front none
will be more delighted to hear of his complete recovery than his
neighbour, _Mr. Punch_, of 85, Fleet Street.

       *       *       *       *       *

SOMETHING NEW IN SOAP.--The Soap Trade is still booming. Almost every
week appears a fresh candidate for public favour, its claim based upon
some alluring speciality. We hear of a newcomer likely to take the
cake (of soap). On all the walls, and in most of the advertisement
columns, will presently blaze forth its proud legend:--"The
Satisfactory Soap--Won't Wash Anything."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: LEGAL IMPROVEMENTS.

IN ORDER TO HUSBAND OUR JUDICIAL STAFF, IN FUTURE A JUDGE WILL BE
EXPECTED TO HEAR TWO CASES AT THE SAME TIME.

PORTRAIT OF A JUDGE TRYING A THEATRICAL "CAUSE CÉLÈBRE," AND A NICE
QUESTION AS TO A "REMAINDER-MAN" AND A "TENANT IN TAIL MALE."]

       *       *       *       *       *

HIGH (BEERBOHM) TREESON!

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I see that Mr. BEERBOHM TREE in his recent production
of _Hamlet_ has introduced a novelty into the tragedy by inventing
fresh business. Unauthorised by the text, he has included _Ophelia_
amongst the Court "attendants," and, finding her on the stage, has
indulged in a dignified flirtation (in dumb show), worthy of the hero
of _L'Enfant Prodigue_ himself. Now I think this a great improvement,
and were the masterpiece to be "written up" throughout on the same
lines, I am sure the representation would be received with enthusiasm.
It might be that the performance would be a little longer, but think
of the enormous gain in interest. To show you what I mean, I take the
first five lines of the opening Act:--

SHAKSPEARE'S VERSION.

    SCENE I.--_Elsinore. A Platform before the Castle. FRANCISCO
    on his post. Enter to him BERNARDO._

  _Bernardo._ Who's there?

  _Francisco._ Nay answer me: stand and unfold yourself!

This passage, furnished with proper business, might be rendered the
means of showing the sort of life led by _Laertes_, justifying the
advice subsequently given to him by _Polonius_ more appropriate to
the conditions of the case as now (for the first time) fully divulged,
Thus--I give my view of the matter:--

AMENDED VERSION.

    SCENE I.--_Elsinore. A Platform before the Castle. As the
    Curtain rises, shouts and laughs are heard without. A Village
    Maiden rushes in, as if pursued. She hides herself behind the
    sentry-box, and then escapes. FRANCISCO, who is on his post,
    looks about, and is surrounded by Danish Gallants, who have
    come in pursuit of the Maiden. He threatens them with his
    arms, and only one remains, who seems overcome by wine. The
    intoxicated Gallant is masked, and evidently very much the
    worse for liquor. He clumsily draws his sword. FRANCISCO
    is about to despatch him, when the mask falls, and in the
    dissipated reveller the Sentry recognises the bloated features
    of LAERTES. He immediately presents arms, as LAERTES
    is his superior officer. LAERTES, half-sobered by this
    suggestion of discipline, wishes to retire unseen, and gives
    largesse to FRANCISCO. The Sentry is greatly gratified, when
    to them enters BERNARDO._

  _Ber._ Who's there?

  _Fran._ (_sheltering LAERTES, who stealthily retires by
    a rope-ladder which falls from the battlements to the moat
    below_). Nay, answer me. Stand and unfold yourself!

By my version I really introduce a most interesting underplot, which,
in my opinion, is equally pleasing and quite as defensible as Mr.
BEERBOHM TREE's business with _Ophelia_.

Yours, A STICKLER.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HUMAN NATURE.

_Jones has always professed the greatest Indifference to (and contempt
for) all Press Criticisms on his Work (although he takes in all the
Papers)._

YET THIS IS WHAT HE LOOKED LIKE WHEN HIS NEW NOVEL WAS PRONOUNCED A
WORK OF GENIUS BY THE _UPPER TOOTING EXPRESS_.

AND THIS IS HOW HE APPEARED WHEN THE _NORTH CLAPHAM GAZETTE_ DISMISSED
THAT IMMORTAL BOOK AS A PIECE OF DRIVELLING SENILE TWADDLE.

AND THIS IS THE WAY HE TREATS ALL NEWSPAPERS, REVIEWS, PERIODICALS,
&C., &C., THAT LEAVE THE IMMORTAL BOOK UNNOTICED!]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE ATTACK ON THE "CAPITAL."

_A LAY OF MODERN LONDON._

    [Arrangements have been made for great political meetings
    in the Metropolis, at which the Liberal Leaders will be the
    principal speakers.]

  HARCURTIUS of the triple chin, by the Nine Points he swore
  The Capital should suffer from Tory sway no more;
  By the Nine Points he swore it, and named a trysting day,
  And bade his messengers ride forth east and west, and south and north,
            To summon his array.

  East and west, and south and north the messengers ride fast;
  From Kennington to Poplar they've heard the trumpet's blast.
  Shame on the false Caucusian who loiters in his Club
  When triple-chin'd HARCURTIUS prepares the foe to drub!
  Too long the Capital hath borne the stubborn Tory yoke,
  Too long the Liberals have failed to strike a swashing stroke.
  Betrayed to Tory clutches by traitors shrewd and strong,
  The banded foes have held it all too firmly and too long.
  SALISBURIUS and GOSCHENIUS have struck unholy pact,
  Foes long in dubious seeming, but ever friends, in fact,
  Devonian CAVENDUS, he of the broad and bovine jowl,
  Who smiled but coldly ever, now on our cause doth scowl.
  Cock-nosed CUBICULARIUS, once a Captain of our host,
  Now chums with bland BALFOURIUS, and makes that bond his boast.
  Oh, was there ever such a gang, so motley and so mixed,
  To garrison a Citadel on which all hopes are fixed?
  Oh, was there ever such a call to strike one mighty blow,
  To snatch the Capital once more, and lay the traitors low?

  HARCURTIUS hurries onward, he waves the Grand Old Flag,
  And when that banner flouts the breeze, what slave so base as lag?
  GLADSTONIUS at his elbow,--not he the Old, the Grand,--
  He shuns the fogs of winter in a far-off sunny land,
  Nursing his force for the great fray that may right soon come on,--
  This is not he of Hawarden, but the old hero's son:
  There's OTTO, of the brindled beard, RUSSELLIUS swift of tongue,
  RIPONIUS and LEFEVRIUS into the fray have flung.
  Sleek-haired STANSFELDUS also, MUNDELLA of the Beak.
  That CORVUS of the legion, good both to fight and speak,
  LEO PLAYFAIRIUS follows, and brave BANNERMANUS bears
  The flag he's fond of flaunting, there gallant AUCEPS dares
  All that becomes a hero, whilst last, but oh, not least!
  KIMBERLEYUS fares forth to the fight as others to a feast.
  "Now, up!" cried stout HARCURTIUS, "Up! and we yet shall trap 'em!
  Kennington calls, and Hackney, with Fulham, too, and Clapham.
  I hear the cry of Chelsea, Islington North and West
  Raise wails that find an echo in this mail-covered breast.
  Bermondsey and Whitechapel upraise a piteous plaint:
  ('Wy don't our 'eroes wisit _hus_? We looks and there they ain't!')
  North Lambeth long neglected, and Wandsworth far South-West,
  (If I know where these places be I wish I may be blest!)
  Appeal to us for succour: then Peckham, gallant Peckham,
  Makes a far cry from her famed Rye. O brethren, shall we check 'em,
  These brave suburban stalwarts whose home is in the waste
  Afar from Pall Mall portals, swell Clubs, and homes of taste,
  But who have Votes, my brethren? Nay, shout ye men of pith,
  And strike for pining Poplar and hapless Hammersmith!"
  "Quite so!" cries 'cute MUNDELLA, the corvine chief and conky,
  "But he who maketh too much noise may show himself a donkey.
  The Capital seems quiet, Sir, the garrison is still,
  Suppose we try that old Gaul game!" HARCURTIUS cries, "I will!"
  Then silently and slowly, and all in single file,
  They climb towards the Citadel. HARCURTIUS, with a smile,
  Hath his head o'er the ramparts, when--Great CÆSAR, what is this?
  They're greeted with one loud, prolonged, and universal _hiss_!
  The sudden sibilation out of silence startles all,
  HARCURTIUS clangs his buckler, OTTO nearly hath a fall,
  "Great gods, the Geese are on us, those confounded Sacred Geese,
  See their long necks, twig their broad beaks! Cease, senile
          cacklers, cease!"

  So gaspeth great HARCURTIUS, but gaspeth all in vain.
  The gaff is blown, the anserine guard gives tongue with might and main.
  A stir, a tramp of mailèd feet, a torch-flare! Whillaloo!
  "Say, is this MARCUS MANLIUS? No, hang it, there be two,
  SALISBURIUS and GOSCHENIUS, with a host, no doubt, behind,
   They're on their guard, whate'er may chance, we shall not 'catch
          'em blind'
  Like gudgeon. No! there's not a chance of a surprise by night;
  If the Gauls take the Citadel, ye gods, they'll have to _fight_!"
  How history repeats itself! At least we must agree,
  The Geese have roused the Capital? And _saved_ it? We shall see!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE ATTACK ON THE "CAPITAL."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SO ARTLESS!

SCENE--_A Cinderella Dance._

_Swell_ (_to ingenuous Maiden_). "ARE YOU ENGAGED?"

_Ingenuous Maiden._ "NO--BUT--I SHOULD SO LIKE TO BE!"

[_And, as the old game has it, the consequences were ----!_]

       *       *       *       *       *

"COME HITHER, HUBERT!"

We are able to present our readers with a few notes of a lecture to
be given by Professor HUBERT HERKOMER, R.A. (by the kind permission
of AUTHOR PINERO, Esq.), to all managers, actors, actresses,
scene-painters, authors, composers, musicians, costumiers, and
wig-makers who will honour him with their attention. On this occasion
the Professor will (among other things) explain, by the aid of a Magic
Lantern (an entirely new invention recently discovered by Professor
H.H.) how to enlighten the stage darkness generally. The Professor
will also combat the erroneous impression derived from the dark ages
of SHAKSPEARE's time, that the Moon, or the Man in it,--probably a
lime-lighterman,--ought servilely to follow the movements, in order to
throw light upon them, of the Principal Performer. The Professor will
observe--"Such a course, on the part of the Direction of the Moon,
can only be considered beneficial to Art, when it is directed against
'The Star System.' As each theatrical Star has its own particular
brilliancy, why lug in the Moon? SHAKSPEARE, no doubt, had the Stage
Moon in full view when he makes _Juliet_ roundly exclaim, 'Oh, swear
not by the Moon, the inconstant Moon!' as, of course, a Moon bound
to illuminate the business of any one actor must follow him about,
and so, though 'constant' to _him_ individually, would be open to a
general charge of inconstancy from the spectators in front. Such a
course for the Moon to take is, as some of the better instructed among
you may possibly be aware, quite unwarranted by the lunar laws of
Nature, &c., &c."

This interesting entertainment will wind up with a dialogue between
_Arthur_ (JONES) and _Hubert_ (HERKOMER), of which we give an extract.
It represents _Arthur_ as wishing to produce a piece, which _Hubert_
forewarns him will be a failure unless he (HUBERT) paints the scenery
and manages it generally.

  _Arthur._ Is there no remedy?

  _Hubert._                 None, but to use _my_ eyes.

  _Arthur._ O HUBERT! If you will, cut down my 'lengths.'
    And I'll be merry as the day is long,
    So you don't interfere. You've other irons
    Hot in the fire.

  _Hubert_ (_aside_). With his innocent prate
    He will awake my mercy which lies dead.
    (_Aloud._) Read this, young ARTHUR!

    [_Gives him a Manuscript._

  _Arthur_ (_opens it. Starts_). What! a play by YOU!
    To be produced by _me_! O HUBERT!! [_Faints._

We regret that want of space prevents our giving any more of this
charming work at present, but no doubt it will not be long ere the
Public has the gratification of hearing and seeing it all.

       *       *       *       *       *

A PARAGON FRAME (OF MIND).

    ["I never took anybody's umbrella."--_Plaintiff (a Cook) in a
    recent Breach of Promise Case._]

  Common are Cooks, professed, plain alike
    And common, youths their sustenance who feed on,
  Common (I'm told) a breach of promise suit,
    And common, damages, in courts agreed on;
  Common are briefs as blackberries; and fees
    Are common quite as "leather and prunella";
  Common are "unprotected" witnesses
  ("_Credat_"--as HORACE somewhere sings--"_Apella_!")
  But most uncommon seems a lowly Cook
  Who with sincerity can kiss the book
  And swear (to shame her betters!) ne'er she took
  By sad "mistake or otherwise," by hook;
  Or, as will eventuate, by crook,
    Be it silk or gingham--any one's umbrella!

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. RAM ON CURRENT POLITICS.--"Politics," says Mrs. RAMSBOTHAM, "is
one of the few things I know nothing about. But it does seem to me
that Lord GRANDOLPH CHURCHILL is a white elephant tied round the neck
of Lord SALISBURY."

       *       *       *       *       *

"HEAVENS!"--Recently in the _Athenæum_, and copied elsewhere, appeared
the most interesting intelligence that has been received on earth for
some time. "The small planet No. 315"--no further address is given, an
omission which will, no doubt, be rectified in the next issue--"which
was discovered at Nice by M. CHARLOIS on the 4th September,
1891,"--the small planet, of course, not being out of the nurse's
arms, was not responsible for being at Nice at an unfashionable time,
but this, of course, is the fault of her parents and guardians--"has
been named Constantia." Rather late to delay the christening for
nearly five months. Of course, the brilliant infant will not stay at
Nice, except by medical advice, but will probably return to No. 315,
Milky Way (or elsewhere), on the first opportunity. _Sic itur ad
astra_!

       *       *       *       *       *

"A STUDENT OF HISTORY" writes to us:--"Sir--I have been reading a
great deal lately on ecclesiastical subjects, and shall be very much
obliged if you will explain to me briefly what 'Inclosed Orders'
are." [If "A STUDENT" will send us, under cover to our office, two
P.O. Orders for two pounds ten shillings each respectively, further
explanation than that conveyed by our receipt for the same will be
unnecessary.--ED.]

       *       *       *       *       *

A RIDDLE.

  I'm underneath your feet
  In the streets of London Town,
    From town take "t,"
    Then give it to me,
  And you'll sell me for a crown.

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. R. AND THE PREVAILING EPIDEMIC.--Our excellent friend is now
convalescent. "Like CÆSAR or CÆSAR's wife, I forget which it was,"
she says, "I have passed the Barbican!" Some one having suggested that
probably she meant "the Rubicon," Mrs. R. thanked him politely, but
added, that she perfectly well knew what she was talking about, and
that everyone who was acquainted with history would understand her
classical delusion.

       *       *       *       *       *

PUZZLER FOR A COSTUMIER.--A Gentleman going to a Fancy Dress Ball
wants to know how he can make up for Lost Time?

       *       *       *       *       *

NAMES for the next pair of Tailed Monkeys sent to the Zoo--"Mr. and
Mrs. CAUDAL."

       *       *       *       *       *

N.B.--"Confessions of a Duffer," No. IV., next week.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SHOWING THAT SOMETIMES IT IS GOOD FOR A COBBLER _NOT_
TO STICK TO HIS LAST.

_Fair Matron._ "I REMEMBER YOUR ACTING '_SIR ANTHONY,' YEARS_ AGO,
WHEN I WAS A GIRL, SIR CHARLES! YOU DID IT SPLENDIDLY!"

_The Great Mathematician._ "AH, WOULD YOU BELIEVE IT, THAT BIT OF
ACTING BROUGHT ME MORE COMPLIMENTS THAN ANYTHING I EVER DID?"

_Fair Matron._ "I SHOULD _THINK_, SO INDEED!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

TRUE AND TRUSTY.

(_A STORY OF THE LAW._)

I always liked LAWRENCE LUCKAPENNY, and shall never forget the first
time I met him. He was leaving the County Court, where I had had
myself a small matter of business, and knowing the same Counsel, we
foregathered. He was in great spirits. He had just won his case.

"Yes," said he, "it was a hard fight, but we came off all right. His
Honour was distinctly in our favour, so now I and my co-trustees will
have the satisfaction of feeling that the estate has benefited, with
no greater loss than a few months' delay. Eh?" and he turned to our
Counsel, who smiled, and shook his head a little doubtfully.

"Can scarcely go so far as that," the man of law observed. "You see,
these matters take time, and the other side may appeal."

"Appeal! What is that?"

"I am afraid you will have the full opportunity for learning, my dear
fellow."

"Well, it's all right up to now," cried LUCKAPENNY, cheerfully, and we
separated.

Two or three years after this I again met the litigant, but this time
in the Royal Courts of Justice. There were streaks of white in his
hair, but he was still cheerful.

I asked him how he was getting on with the matter, and he replied,
"As well as might be expected." Our Counsel had been right, for the
liquidators had appealed.

"But we have beaten them again, my dear Sir! Think of that,--beaten
them again!"

"And now you will have no further difficulty, I suppose."

"I can't go quite so far as that," returned LUCKAPENNY, who I noticed
was adopting legal phraseology. "You know they may take us up to the
House of Lords, if they please!"

And again time went on. In the course of years I found that poor
LUCKAPENNY _had_ been taken to Westminster, and their Lordships had
decided to give themselves time to consider their judgment.

When I met LUCKAPENNY again, the House of Lords had decided against
him.

"It is very awkward," he observed, "they will not allow my costs, and
so I shall have to pay them out of my own pocket! And what makes it
the more annoying is that, even had we won our cause, it would
have led to nothing, as the estate we were fighting is practically
bankrupt."

I offered my condolences, and we separated.

The last time, I saw poor LUCKAPENNY, he looked a very shadow of
himself. He was haggard and thin, and was wearing clothes of an
ancient cut and threadbare material. He smiled as he met me, and
observed that he was still engaged on the trust matter.

"But I have come to the last stage," he said; "I have paid the costs
in full. And now I am going home."

"Going home," I repeated, and noticing that he seemed feeble, offered
him the support of my arm. "I will walk as far as your residence."

"You are very good," he replied, "but I am afraid that I cannot ask
you to come in."

"Never mind that; but where do you live?"

"Where should I live after a lawsuit?" he returned, with a short
laugh. "Why, in the Workhouse, to be sure--in the Workhouse!"

And as a ratepayer, I have assisted to support him ever since!

       *       *       *       *       *

A MENU FROM BIRMINGHAM.

POTAGES.

Duchesse. Consommé de Déluge à l'Après Moi.

POISSONS.

Hors d'Eau à l'Appât convenable. Crevettes à l'Envie.

ENTRÉES.

Petits Programmes à la Robe de Joseph. Filets de Vis, Sauce Monopole.
Pattes de Matou aux Griffes.

RÔTS.

Moi Même. Dinde Fidèle de Jessé.

LÉGUMES.

Orchis en Boutonnière. Hartijo Sauce Soumission.

RELEVÉS.

Monocle. Salmi de Paires Filants aux Lis.

ENTREMETS.

Gâteau Rossendale. Conserves d'Église Galloise. Boudin de Labouchère à
la Lanterne.

DESSERT.

Bonbons de Famille. Hameçons de Flatterie. Oublis.

       *       *       *       *       *

IN STATU,--QUO?

Should CROMWELL have a statue at Westminster was a burning question
some years ago. We all know the result, and nowadays, who cares?
At present, the question at Oxford is, Shall Cardinal NEWMAN have a
statue? and, if so, Shall it be just opposite the Martyrs' Memorial?
From one point of view, the situation is happily selected, as, of
course, NEWMAN was on just exactly opposite ground to CRANMER, RIDLEY,
and LATIMER. The Oxford Dons are right in supposing that no statue
can be erected without a previous design; a design by a hand that has
not lost its cunning. The proposed site is in Broad Street, a very
suggestive name as opposed to narrowness of any sort; yet so eager
are the illogical Dons in the matter of preservation of spaces, that
before even the base of a clay model has been commenced, they have
already prepared the ground for the reception of the statue by getting
up any amount of railing about the proposed site!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "WAKING-UP" FOR THE OPENING OF THE SESSION.]

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.

NO. X.--TO CROOKEDNESS.

OBLIQUE, BUT FORMIDABLE ONE,

You have frequently fixed your abode in high places. Are there
not recorded in history the names of kings and statesmen whom an
irresistible desire to scheme, and trick, and overreach, has brought
to the block? The times were difficult--that much one may admit. Noble
heads of honourable and upright men were lopped in profusion; and it
may be argued, with some show of reason, that the man whose character
was as flawless as pure crystal, was like to fare as badly as the
muddiest rascal of them all, if his side sank in defeat. And yet
I cannot help believing that, in some cases at least, a man might
have had a happier end if he had abstained from acts of political
turpitude, which were as irrational in their conception as they
were ruinous in their effect; acts, that is, which, in the existing
circumstances, no sane man could have undertaken unless the mere doing
of these rogueries had been a supreme and a necessary pleasure to him.
There was poor CHARLES THE FIRST. Surely, in spite of that melancholy,
doomed face, he might have died in peace if he had only played the
game fairly. JAMES THE SECOND, too, and MARLBOROUGH, the greatest
Captain of his age, and BOLINGBROKE, the eloquent philosophiser, the
grave moralist, how different might their ends have been had not you,
O CROOKEDNESS, presided at their births, and ruled their lives. But,
avaunt, History! Here I am straying into a treatise, when I merely
intended to remind you of little PETER SHEEF, and of his adventures.

[Illustration]

PETER and I were freshmen together at Cambridge in the remote past
before "Johnnies," and "Chappies," and "Mashers" had been heard of,
before the "oof bird" had been fledged in its pink and sporting nest,
or the Egyptian cigarette had asserted its universal sway. I daresay
we differed but little (by "we" I mean the freshmen of our year) from
those who have lately appeared for the first time in King's Parade, or
Jesus Lane. We were very young--we imagined Proctors to be destitute
of human feeling; we ate portentous breakfasts of many courses, and,
for the most part, treated our allowances as though they had been so
much pocket-money. Also we had an idea that a man who had passed his
thirtieth year was absurdly old, and that nobody could be called a
boy whose name had been entered on the books of a College. In fact,
we were freshmen.

PETER and I were a good deal thrown together during our first term.
Like me, he had come up from one of the smaller schools, and we had
not, therefore, a very large number of friends to start with. PETER
was one of the pleasantest fellows in the world, always cheerful,
good-tempered, and obliging. He always seemed to have plenty of money.
Indeed, I know that his father made him an allowance of £800 a year,
a sum which was considerably more than double that received by the
majority of his fellows. The parental SHEEF I have since discovered
was a Solicitor, who had made his mark and his fortune by the crafty
defence of shady financiers in distress, of bogus company promoters,
and generally of the great race who live in the narrow border-land
which divides the merely disreputable from the positively indictable.
But at that time I didn't trouble my head to inquire about PETER's
father, and was content as most Undergraduates are, to take my friends
as I thought I found them. PETER was musical; he played several
instruments with skill, and sang a capital song. With all these
qualities, he soon became, to a certain extent, popular. He then set
up as a giver of good and expensive dinners, kept a couple of horses
in the hunting season, devoted great attention to his dress, and made
himself unobtrusively agreeable to the little gods of our miniature
world. In his second year he had gained a position; most people spoke
well of him, and liked him. It only rested with PETER himself to
maintain what he had gained, and to enter on life with troops of
friends. A few moments of purposeless folly were sufficient to shatter
him.

I remember that in my first term I was not very agreeably impressed
by something that PETER did. A dog-fancier happened to come through
the street in which we both lodged, and PETER began to bargain with
him for a fox-terrier, who, according to the fancier's account, had
a pedigree as long and as illustrious as that of a Norman Peer.
Eventually it had been agreed that the dog was to become PETER's
property in consideration of thirty shillings in cash, a pair of
trousers, and a bottle of brandy. The exchange was made, and the man
departed. Thereupon PETER informed me with glee, that the trousers
were a pair of his father's, which had been packed in his portmanteau
by mistake, and that the brandy-bottle contained about fifty per cent.
of water, that amount of brandy having been poured off before payment
was made. As PETER put it, "I've done him in the eye, to prevent him
doing me." I tried in vain to bring him round to the opinion that (let
alone robbing one's father) cheating a cheat was one of the lowest
forms of roguery. The dog-fancier soon afterwards returned, and
protested, with tears in his eyes, that the shabby trick had wounded
him in his tenderest feelings, but he seemed quite willing to begin a
fresh bargain with "the only gen'lemen, s'help me, as ever bested pore
little ALEC."

All this is, however, by the way. I merely mention it to illustrate
PETER's character. At the University Steeple-Chase Meeting, which
took place at the end of our third October term, SHEEF had entered
his animals for several races. He was a good rider, and confidently
anticipated success. To celebrate the occasion, he had arranged a big
dinner-party, and had invited some twenty of us to dine with him. I
had been unable to go to the races myself, but at the appointed hour
I turned up at SHEEF's rooms. I found the table brilliantly laid,
waiters hanging about, and dozens of Champagne in readiness. SHEEF
was there, but, beside myself, no other guest had appeared. And not a
single one came. I forget what excuse the miserable host made, but the
result was that we two solemnly dined at a table laid for ten times
our number. I think I shall remember that ghastly festivity as long as
I live. The next day all Cambridge knew that SHEEF had not only pulled
one of his horses openly and disgracefully, but had wilfully misled
both his friends and the book-makers as to the horse he intended to
ride in a race for which entries were made at the post. I never heard
that he stood to win more than £50 by the transaction. And for this
paltry sum (paltry, that is, to a man of his means) he had wrecked his
reputation, and all the possibilities of his career.

I see him slinking about London sometimes. Last year he passed,
with much discredit, through the Bankruptcy Court. He has been a
Director of countless Companies, for the stock of fools seems to be
inexhaustible. There can only be one end for such a man as SHEEF. The
cool, callous, and calculating knave may get clear through to the end;
but SHEEF always was stupidly good-natured, and good-nature hangs like
a millstone round the neck of rascality. I cannot myself detest him as
I ought to do. He was so near to completely successful respectability.
But crookedness ruined him, in spite of his better wishes. Was it
altogether his own fault?

That, as Mr. BRET HARTE observes, lets me out.

I remain as before, DIOGENES ROBINSON.

       *       *       *       *       *

A DANGEROUS TITLE.

(_TO MR. JOSEPH HATTON, AUTHOR OF "CIGARETTE PAPERS."_)

  Cigarette Papers, JOSEPH, when properly stuffed,
  Are meant, I suppose, to be zealously puffed.
  When we take them in hand, a consuming desire
  Attacks us to set the gay trifles on fire.
  Yet, the brand being good (here's the point of my joke),
  They are always enjoyed ere they vanish in smoke.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM AN X.J.P. TO LORD CHIEF JUSTICE PUNCH.--Sir,--Why complain of
"the Licence of the Bar?" Of course it goes with, and is a part of,
every Licence to a Public-house granted by the Middlesex Magistrates.
I've retired some years myself, am a bit deaf, and don't read much;
but I heard just enough to warrant me in writing to you at once on
what appears to me so simple a matter.

ROBERT SHALLOW, X.J.P., M.M.

_At the Sign of the Pig and Pippin._

       *       *       *       *       *

TO THE FUTURE A.R.A.--Better luck next time, Mr. SWAN. Be satisfied
that, though at present unelected, you are Swan, R.A., i.e., _Rara
Avis_. As you can plume yourself on this, so "_in hoc Cygno,
vinces!_" Which we caninecally and not canonically for the nonce
nonce-sensically render, "In this (matter), to the Swan (we say) you
will (go in and) win!"

       *       *       *       *       *

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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