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Title: Punch, Or The London Charivari, Volume 102, Jan. 2, 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, Jan. 2, 1892" ***

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VOL. 102.

January 2, 1892.


       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: The Duke of Devonshire.]

BORN, APRIL 27TH, 1808. DIED, DECEMBER 21ST, 1891.

  Learned, large-hearted, liberal Lord of Land,
  As clear of head as generous of hand,
  He lived his honourable length of days,
  A "Duke" whom doughtiest Democrat might praise.
  "Leader" in truth, though not with gifts of tongue,
  Full many a "Friend of Man" the muse has sung
  Unworthier than patrician CAVENDISH.
  Seeing him pass who may forbear the wish,
  Would more were like him!--Then the proud command,
  "_Noblesse oblige_" e'en Mobs might understand!

       *       *       *       *       *


    SCENE--_A Private Room in a well-known Dining Hotel. Eminent
    Politicians discussing "shop" over their walnuts before
    dispersing for the Christmas holidays._

_First Eminent Politician_. I say that recent speech of yours at
Skegness was a little strong. Preferring the Navy to the Army!
Although the Army is of course the "Best possible Army," and all that!
Eh? I say it was a little too thick!

_Second Em. Pol._ (_quickly_). Not a bit of it! You don't know how
well we are getting on at Pall Mall. I give you my word everything's
first-rate. Department working splendidly. You can't say that at
Whitehall and Somerset House?

_First Em. Pol._ (_warmly_). Not say it! We do! Everything's most
satisfactory. Discipline splendid. Never had such a fine Fleet. And
the fireworks we had at the Royal Naval Exhibition all through the
Summer! Well you ought to have seen them!


_Second Em. Pol._ (_carelessly_). Yes, I daresay. But what have
fireworks got to do with the Navy?

_First Em. Pol._ Why they increased our recruiting awfully. Fellows
went to the Royal Naval Exhibition and saw all sorts of good
things, automatic weighing machine, a fishing-smack, and Nelson
wax-works--and--and that kind of thing you know, and joined the Navy!
Precious good thing for the Service, I can tell you.

_Second Em. Pol._ Well, to go back to an old story--you can't defend
the bullying on board _The Britannia_.

_First Em. Pol._ Oh, that's all bosh. Those newspaper fellows got
hold of it for the Silly Season and ran it to death, but it's the best
possible place in the world. No end of good training for a fellow to
command other fellows.

_Second Em. Pol._ Well, they were down upon you pretty smartly.

_First Em. Pol._ (_airily_). May be. But it's because they didn't know
what they were writing about. How can a fellow become a good naval
officer unless he has been robbed of his pocket-money, and taught how
to lie for his seniors. Thing's too ridiculous! Hallo, JIMMY, they
tell me things are in a dreadful mess at St. Martin's-le-Grand!

_Third Em. Pol._ (_promptly_). Then they tell you wrong. Never saw
anything like it--most perfect organisation in the world! Absolutely
marvellous, Sir--absolutely marvellous! And the clerks so civil and
obliging. Everybody pleased with them.

_Second Em. Pol._ Come, that won't do. Your statement is as hard to
digest as too-previous turkey and premature plum-pudding. The papers
are full of complaints all through the Autumn, and have only stopped
recently to make room for those descriptive and special law reports.
You will have them again, now Term is over.

_Third Em. Pol._ Who cares for the papers? I tell you we are
absolutely inundated with letters of thanks from Dukes and Duchesses
upwards. No; if you had said that the Colonies were in a mess, why

_Fourth Em. Pol._ (_angrily_). What _are_ you talking about? Why, we
are absolutely romping in! Never knew the Colonies so prosperous as
they are now! And we have had to put on half-a-dozen extra clerks to
open and answer the letters of congratulation we receive hour by hour
from every part of the Empire. Why, everything's splendid--absolutely

_Second Em. Pol._ Well, matters have decidedly mended since
transportation was prohibited. But to return to our muttons. Waterloo
was won--

_Fourth Em. Pol._ (_interrupting_). Yes, I know, by the Militia and
the dregs of the population! By the way, though, the gaols have had
better company than now.

_Fifth Em. Pol._ Hold hard! Don't you abuse my Prisons. As a matter of
fact, the present convicts are the finest, cleverest, most trustworthy
fellows that ever existed. It is quite an honour to get into a prison
nowadays. (_With a sudden burst of anger_.) And if any of you doubt
my word, hang me, I will have satisfaction! (_Looking round for
opponents_.) Come now, who will tread on the tail of my coat!

_Chief and Most Eminent Politician_. Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Come
it's getting late, and if we are to see the dress-rehearsal of the
Pantomime, we must be off at once!

    [_The Party breaks up to meet later on in the neighbourhood of
    Drury Lane._

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM OUR SPORTING CITY MAN.--"_Pounded before the Start_."--Mr.
GOSCHEN's One-pound Note scheme.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE CHIMES.]


       *       *       *       *       *

It was some time before the great-little old fellow could compose
himself to mend the fire, and draw his chair to the warm hearth. But,
when he had done so, and had trimmed his lamp, he took his "Extra
Special" from his pocket, and began to read--carelessly at first,
and skimming up and down the columns, but with an earnest and sad
attention very soon.

For this same dreadful paper re-directed _Punch's_ thoughts into the
channel they had taken all that day; thoughts of the sufferings of the
poor, the follies of the rich, the sins of the wicked, the miseries of
the outcast. Seasonable thoughts, if not exactly festive. For all is
not festive, even at the Festive Season.

Scandals in high life, starvation in low life; foul floods of
nastiness in Law Courts; muddy tricklings of misery in lawless alleys;
crimes so terrible and revolting; pains so pitiless and cureless;
follies so selfish and wanton, that he let the journal drop, and fell
back in his chair, appalled.

"Unnatural and cruel, _Toby_!" he cried. "Unnatural and cruel! None
but people who were born bad at heart--born bad--who had no business
on the earth, could do such deeds. We're Bad!"

The Chimes took up the words so suddenly--burst out so loud, clear,
and sonorous--that the Bells seemed to strike him in his chair.

And what was it that they said?

"_Punch_ and _Toby! Toby_ and _Punch_! Waiting for you, _Toby_ and
_Punch_! Come and see us! Come and see us! Come and see us! Drag them
to us! Haunt and hunt them! Haunt and hunt them. Break their slumbers!
Break their slumbers! _Punch, Toby; Toby, Punch; Toby, Punch; Punch,
Toby_!!" Then fiercely back to their impetuous strain again, and
ringing in the very bricks and plaster on the Sanctum's walls!

_Toby_ barked! _Punch_ listened! Fancy, fancy! No, no! Nothing of the
kind. Again, again, and yet a dozen times again. "Haunt and hunt them!
Haunt and hunt them!"

"If the tower is really open," said _Punch_, "what's to hinder us,
_Toby_, from going up to the steeple, and seeing for ourselves?"
"Nothing," yapped _Toby_, or sounds to that effect.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: 'ARRY OUT 'UNTIN'.

_'Arry_ (_who goes to the Meet in a frost_). "'AVE THE 'OUNDS COME,

_Little Girl_ (_respectfully_). "IF YOU PLEASE, SIR, _OUR_ 'OUNDS DON'T

       *       *       *       *       *

Up, up, up! and round and round; and up, up, up! higher, higher,
higher up!

There was the belfry where the ringers came. _Punch_ caught hold of
one of the frayed ropes which hung down through the apertures in the
oaken roof. But he started; other hands seemed on it; he shrank from
the thought of waking the deep Bell. The Bells themselves were higher.
Higher, _Punch_ and _Toby_, in their fascination, or working out the
spell upon them, groped their way; until, ascending through the floor,
and pausing, with his head raised just above its beams _Punch_ came
among the Bells. It was barely possible to make out their great shapes
in the gloom; but there they were. Shadowy, and dark, and dumb.

He listened, and then raised a wild "Halloa!" "Halloa!" was mournfully
protracted by the echoes. Giddy, confused, and out of breath, _Punch_
looked about him vacantly, and sank down in a swoon.

       *       *       *       *       *

He saw the tower, whither his charmed footsteps had brought him,
swarming with dwarf phantoms, sprites, elfin creatures of the Bells.
He saw them leaping, flying, dropping, pouring from the Bells without
a pause. He saw them, round him on the ground; above him in the air;
clambering from him by the ropes below; looking down upon him from the
massive iron-girdered beams; peeping in upon him through the chinks
and loopholes in the walls; spreading away and away from him in
enlarging circles. He saw them of all aspects and all shapes. He saw
them ugly, handsome, crippled, exquisitely formed. He saw them young,
he saw them old; he saw them kind, he saw them cruel; he saw them
merry, he saw them grim; he saw them dance, he heard them sing; he saw
them tear their hair, he heard them howl. He saw the air thick with

_Wh-o-o-o-sh!_ With what a wild whirr of startled wings the owls and
bats scurried away, dim spectral hiding things that love the darkness
and the silence of night, and shrink from light and cheerful sounds!
"Well rid of _you_!" murmured _Punch_, as _Toby_ barked at the flying

But among the other swarming sprites, and circling elfs, and frolic
phantoms of the Bells, _Punch_ beheld brighter things. That pleasant
pair, hand in hand, princely-looking both, and loving withal, bring a
music as of marriage-bells "all in the wild March morning." And those
other goodly and gracious presences, hint they not of Health and
Home Happiness, and Benignant Art, and Humanity-serving Science, of
Electric Sympathy, and Ready Rescue, of Mammon-thwarting Reform, and
Misery-staying Benevolence; of all the spiritual charities and fairy
graces that can bless and brighten country and hearth, Sire and
citizen, master and servant, employer and employed, struggling man,
suffering woman and helpless child? _Punch_ read in their whirling
forms and expressive faces the signs and promise of all the best and
brightest influences of the time, happy and opportune attendants upon
the auspicious hour of this the opening day of the New Year!

       *       *       *       *       *

_Bim, Bom, Boom!!! Clang, Cling, Clang_!!! What are those hands
tugging at the ropes, swinging the Bells big and little, evoking the
stormy clashes and soothing cadences of the Chimes?

Surely those of the youthful New Year himself! An echo from the
long-silent lips of the great Christmas-glorifier and lover of poor
humanity seemed to ring in _Punch's_ ears:--

"Who hears in us, the Chimes, one note bespeaking disregard, or stern
regard, of any hope, or joy or pain, or sorrow, of the many-sorrowed
throng; who hears us make response to any creed that gauges human
passions and affections, as it gauges the amount of miserable food on
which humanity may pine and wither, does us wrong!"

"Right you are!" cried _Punch_, cordially, _Toby_ yapping assent.

He might have said more, but the Bells, the dear familiar Bells,
his own dear constant, steady friends, the Chimes, began to ring the
joy-peals for a New Year so lustily, so merrily, so happily, so gaily,
that he (like poor old _Trotty Veck_) leapt to his feet, and broke the
spell that bound him.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Yes, that is still the true Spirit of the Chimes," mused _Mr. Punch_,
as he took pen in hand to open up his new Volume. "And that's the
spirit I hope to keep up right through the twelve months of just-born
Eighteen Hundred and Ninety-two, which I trust may be--with my willing


       *       *       *       *       *


One of the Baron's Critical Faculty sends him his opinion of our Mr.
DU MAURIER's latest novel, which is also his first. And here let it be
published _urbi et orbi_ that there is no truth whatever in a report
which appeared in an evening paper to the effect that Mr. DU MAURIER,
however retiring he may be, was about to retire or had retired
from _Mr. Punch's_ Staff. The _St. James's Gazette_ has already
"authoritatively" denied the assertion; and this denial the Baron
for _Mr. Punch_, decisively confirms. Now, to the notice of the book
above-mentioned. Here it is:--


"There has been a certain deliberateness in Mr. DU MAURIER's incursion
into literature that speaks eloquently for his modesty. He is, to our
certain knowledge, at least 40 years old, and _Peter Ibbetson_, which
Messrs. OSGOOD & CO. present in two daintily dressed volumes, is
his first essay in romantic writing. Reading the book, it is hard to
conceive this to be the fact. The work is entirely free from those
traces of amateurishness, almost inseparable from a first effort. The
literary style is considerably above the average modern novelist; the
plot is marked by audacious invention, worked out with great skill;
the hero is a madman, not in itself an attractive arrangement, but
there is such admirable method in his madness, such fine poetic
feeling in the conception of character, and the ghosts who flit
through the pages of the story are so exceedingly human, that one
feels quite at home with _Peter_, and is really sorry when, all too
soon, his madness passes away, and he awakes to a new life, to find
himself an old man. Apart from its strong dramatic interest, _Peter
Ibbetson_ has rare value, from the pictures of Old Paris in the last
days of LOUIS-PHILIPPE, which crowd in charming succession through the
first volume. Mr. GEORGE DU MAURIER, the well-known artist in black
and white, has generously assisted Mr. GEORGE DU MAURIER, the rising
novelist, by profusely illustrating the work. 'Tis a pretty rivalry;
hard to say which has the better of it. Wherein a discerning Public,
long familiar with DU MAURIER's sketches, will recognise a note of
highest praise for the new departure."

The Baron recommends Mrs. OLIPHANT's _The Railway Man and his
Children_, which is a good story, with just such a dash of the
improbable--but there, who can bring improbability as a charge against
the plot constructed by any novelist after this great Jewel Case so
recently tried? Mrs. OLIPHANT's types are well drawn; but the story is
drawn out by just one volume too much. "For a one-volume novel commend
me," quoth the Baron, "to Miss RHODA-BROUGHTON-CUM-ELIZABETH-BISLAND's
_A Widower Indeed_. But ... wait till after the festivities are over
to read it, as the tale is sad." _En attendant_, A Happy New Year to
everyone, says


       *       *       *       *       *




FRANK was a very studious and clever little boy.


He took the keenest delight in music, and when he had mastered his
lessons, he was very fond of playing on the concertina, and singing to
his own accompaniment. He could already play "_The Bells go a-ringing
for Sarah_!" with considerable finish and expression, and since
his Uncle DODDLEWIG had presented him with half-a-crown for his
performance, he had given the air with variations, and the song with
every description of embellishment, all over the paternal mansion, and
in most corners of the ancestral estate.

To tell the truth, his family were getting somewhat tired of his
continued asseverations concerning the tintinabulatory tribute
everlastingly rendered to the excellent young woman. And had he not
been so markedly encouraged by rich old Uncle DODDLEWIG, there is
every reason to suppose that FRANK and his concertina would have been
speedily suppressed.

FRANK heard his Papa lamenting that foxes were so very scarce, that
recently they had had no sport whatever. "There must be plenty of
foxes in the country," said the Squire, "but they won't show."

Now FRANK had been reading about Orpheus, and how he charmed all the
wild beasts with his melody. It was true the boy had not a lyre, but
he had no doubt that his concertina would do as well, and he was quite
certain he had seen a fox while taking his rambles in Tippity Thicket,

One day when he had a holiday, and his Papa had gone a hunting with
his friends, he strolled off with his concertina to endeavour to
lure a fox out into the open. He approached the hole where he had
previously seen the fox, and sat down, and began to play vigorously
on his concertina, and to sing at the top of his voice, "The Bells
go a-ringing for _Say_-rah! _Say_-rah! _Say_-rah!" Presently he saw a
huge Fox poke his nose out of the hole. He was delighted! He sang and
played with renewed energy, and began to walk away, still singing and

The Fox followed, snarling, and snapping, and appearing very angry.
The more he played, the more the Fox snarled and snapped. At last the
animal became furious, all the hair on its back stood on end, and it
began to make short runs with its mouth open at the young musician.

It sprang upon him! He was terrified! He dropped his song and his
concertina at the same moment, and scrambled up the nearest tree.

The Fox's fury then knew no bounds; he trampled on the concertina, he
bit it, he tore open the bellows, and having reduced it to a shapeless
mass, bore it away to his hole.

When the coast was quite clear, FRANK descended, and slunk home.

The next morning one of the keepers found a dead fox. It had
apparently died of suffocation, as sixteen ivory concertina-stops were
found in its throat.

FRANK now has entirely ceased to believe in Ancient Mythology, and
has been even heard to hint that he considers Dr. LEMPRIÈRE a bit of
a humbug.

       *       *       *       *       *

"LOST TO SIGHT, TO MEMORY DEAR."--An animal very difficult to secure
again when once off ... and that is ... "a pony," when you've lost it
on Newmarket Heath.

       *       *       *       *       *



I dispense with all formal opening, and I begin at once. I want to
tell you a story. Don't ask me why; for, even if I answered the truth,
the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, you would hardly believe
me. Let me merely say that I want to tell you a story, and tell it
without much further preface.


Two days ago I chanced, for no special reason, to open the drawers
of an old writing-table, which for years past had stood, unused, in
a corner of an upper room. In one I found a rusty screw, in another
a couple of dusty envelopes, in a third a piece of sealing-wax,
half-a-dozen nibs, and a broken pencil. The fourth, and last drawer,
was very stiff. For a long time it defied my efforts, and it was only
by a great exertion of strength that I was at last able to wrench it
open. To my surprise I saw two packets of letters, tied together with
faded ribbon. I took them up, and then remembered, with a start, what
they were. They were all in their envelopes, and all were addressed,
in the same hand-writing, to Sir CHARLES CALLENDER, Bart., Curzon
Street, Mayfair. They were his wife's letters, and, after the
death of Sir CHARLES, whose sole executor I was, they came into my
possession,--Sir CHARLES, for some inscrutable reason, never having
destroyed them, although, after his wife's death, the reading of
them cannot have given him much pleasure. No doubt I ought to have
destroyed them. I had never read them; but there, in that forgotten
drawer, they had lain, the silent dust accumulating upon them as the
years rolled on. They reminded me of the story I am about to relate--a
story of which, I think, no one except myself has guessed the truth,
and which, in most of its details, I only knew from a paper, carefully
closed, heavily sealed, and addressed to me, which I found amongst my
friend's documents. It was in his hand-writing throughout, but I shall
tell it in my own words, and in my own way.

Nobody who was about in London Society some thirty years ago, could
fail to know or know about the beautiful Lady CALLENDER. She was of a
good county family. She was clever and accomplished. She had married
a man rich, generous, amiable, and cultivated, who adored her.
Unfortunately they had no children, but, in every other respect, Lady
CALLENDER seemed to be very justly an object of envy and admiration
to most of the men and women of her circle. Personally I had no great
liking for her. I don't take any credit for that--far from it. The
reason may have been that her Ladyship (although I was one of her
husband's best friends, had been his school chum, and had "kept"
with him in the same set of rooms at Cambridge, where his triumphs,
physical and intellectual, are still remembered) never much cared for
me. She could dissemble her real feelings better than any woman I
ever knew, she always greeted me with a smile, she even made a parade
of taking my advice on little family difficulties, but there was an
indefinable something in her manner which convinced me that beneath
all her smiles she bore me no good-will. The fact is that, without any
design on my part, I had detected her in one or two bits of trickery,
and, in what I suppose I must call her heart of hearts, she never
forgave me. The truth is, though her guileless husband only knew it
too late, she was perhaps the trickiest and the most heartless woman
in England. If there were two roads to the attainment of any object,
the one straight, broad, smooth and short, the other round-about,
obscure, narrow and encompassed with pitfalls and beset by
difficulties, she would deliberately choose the latter for no other
reason that I could ever see except that by treading it she might be
able to deceive her friends as to her true direction. She carried
to a fine art the small intrigues, the petty jealousies, the mean
manoeuvres in the science of outwitting; the shifts, the stratagems,
the evasions by which power in Society is often supposed to be
confirmed, reputations are frequently ruined, and lives are almost
invariably made wretched. But Sir CHARLES knew none of these
things. He was apparently only too proud to be dragged at his wife's
chariot-wheels in her triumphant progress. For the strange part of
the business is that there was absolutely no need for any of her
deeply-laid schemes. Success, popularity and esteem would have come
to her readily without them. She was, as I said, beautiful. Innocence
seemed to be throned on her fresh and glowing face. Her smile
fascinated, her voice was a poem, and she was musical in the best
sense of the word at a time when good music, although it might lack
popular support, could always command a small band of enthusiastic
votaries in London.

There was at this time living in London an Italian artist, man
of letters and musical _virtuoso_, who was the spoiled darling of
Society. All the women raved about him, the men liked him, for he had
fought bravely on the field of battle, was a sportsman and had about
him that frank and abundant _gaieté de coeur_, which powerfully
attracts the less exuberant Englishman. For his part CASANUOVA (that
was his name) bore all his successes with good-nature and without
swagger. Of course there were whispers about him. Where so many women
worshipped, it was certain that two or three would lose their heads.
Amongst this limited number was little Mrs. MILLETT, one of Lady
CALLENDER's most intimate friends. She made no secret of her _grande
passion_. She poured her tale into the ears of Lady CALLENDER, and
asked for sympathy and help. Lady CALLENDER promised both, and at the
self-same moment, made up her mind that she would withdraw from Mrs.
MILLETT such affection as CASANUOVA had honoured her with, and bring
him, not because she cared for him, but merely for the sport of the
thing, to her own feet. She succeeded admirably. Under the pretence
of bringing CASANUOVA and Mrs. MILLETT together (such things, you
know, have been done in good Society) she invited him constantly to
her house; she gave musical parties in his honour, she used all her
fascinations, and finally, having fooled Ariadne to the top of her
bent, she captured Theseus, and bore him off.

Mrs. MILLETT was a foolish and frivolous little woman. Rage and
despair made her a demon. She resolved on revenge, and proceeded to it
with a cool and astonishing persistency. Now I do not myself believe
that Lady CALLENDER cared two straws about CASANUOVA. What she aimed
at and enjoyed was the discomfiture of a friend. In order to obtain
it, however, she committed a fatal imprudence. She wrote some letters
which would have convinced even a French jury of her guilt. By a
master-stroke of cunning wickedness, Mrs. MILLETT gained possession of
them, and sent them to Sir CHARLES. It happened that about this time
Sir CHARLES was in a very low state of health, and his friends were
anxious about him. One afternoon, when Sir CHARLES was confined to
his bed, Lady CALLENDER was playing the piano to her Italian slave. A
message was brought to her that her husband desired to see her for a
few minutes, and she tripped gaily away, saying to CASANUOVA, "Wait
here; I shall return directly." In a quarter of an hour, however, her
maid came to tell him that her Ladyship was suffering, and begged
him to excuse her, and he departed. When the maid returned to Lady
CALLENDER, she found her lying dead on the floor of her room, with a
small phial, which had contained prussic acid, clasped tightly in her

This is what had happened: Sir CHARLES had received the letters; they
left no doubt in his mind that the wife he adored was betraying him,
and he, too, resolved on revenge. He sent for his wife. When she came
in, he at once confronted her with her letters, and taxed her with her
guilt. A terrible scene of tears, entreaties, and bitter reproaches
ensued, but Sir CHARLES was as adamant, and his wife retired to her
bedroom in a state of nervous prostration, which immediately brought
on a toothache. At this point she sent for her maid, and gave her the
message to CASANUOVA.

The Coroner was sympathetic, and did what he could, but the evidence
in favour of the suicide theory seemed overwhelming, and the jury
returned a verdict to this effect, with a rider strongly commenting on
the danger of selling such deadly poisons. But it was never explained
how Lady CALLENDER obtained the prussic acid, nor why she had selected
that particular moment for its use. I ought to add, that CASANUOVA
left England before the inquest, and has never returned. On the
mystery of the final catastrophe the manuscript throws no light. It
ends abruptly. But the whole tone of it leads me to believe, that in
some unexplained manner Sir CHARLES himself had been instrumental in
causing his wife's death. But you, no doubt, know, and could tell us
if you wished.

So there, my friend, you have the story. Sorry I couldn't make it more
cheerful. Do you remember the part you played in it?


       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *



  And PUNCHIUS ever served the good Old Year
  Before his death-hour struck; and on the night
  When he, on twelve's last stroke must pass away,
  Room making for his heir, great PUNCHIUS-MERLIN
  Left the Old King, and passing forth to breathe,
  Then from the mystic gateway by the chasm
  Descending through the wintry night--a night
  In which the bounds of year and year were blent--
  Beheld, so high upon the wave-tost deep
  It seemed in heaven, a light, the shape thereof
  An angel winged, and all from head to feet
  Bright with a shining radiance golden-rayed,
  And gone as soon as seen; and PUNCHIUS knew
  The oft-glimpsed face of Hope, the blue-eyed guest,
  Avant-courier of Peace and of Good Will,
  And herald of Good Tidings. Then the Sage
  Dropt to the cave, and watched the great sea fall
  Wave after wave, each mightier than the last.
  Till last, a great one, gathering half the deep
  And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged,
  Roaring, and all the wave was in a flame.
  And down the wave and in the flame, was borne
  A naked Babe, and rode to PUNCH's feet,
  Who stoopt, and caught the Babe, and cried "The Year!
  Here is an heir for Ninety-One!" The fringe
  Of that great breaker, sweeping up the strand
  Lashed at the wizard as he spake the word,
  And all at once all round him rose in light,
  So that the Child and he were clothed in light,
  And presently thereafter followed calm,
  Loud bells, and song!
            "And this same Child," PUNCH said,
  "Twelve moons shall reign, nor will I part with him
  Till these be told." And saying this the Sage,
  The Modern MERLIN of the motley coat,
  Wizard of Wit and Seer of Sunny Mirth,
  Took up the wave-borne youngster in his arms,
  His nurse, his champion, his Mentor wise,
  And bare him shoreward out of wind and wet,
  Into his sanctum, where choice fare was spread,
  And cosy comfort ready to receive
  Young Ninety-Two, and give him a "send-off"
  Such as should strengthen and encourage him
  To make fair start, and face those many moons
  Of multiform vicissitude with pluck,
  Good hope and patient pertinacity.
  And when men sought the Modern MERLIN's ear
  And asked him what these matters might portend,
  The shining angel, and the naked Child
  Descending in the glory of the seas,
  He laughed, as is his wont, and answered them
  In riddling triplets of old time, and said:

  "Peace and good-will! Croaking is all my eye!
  A young man will be wiser by-and-by,
  An old man's wit should ripen ere he die.

  "Patience and pluck! Fretting is fiddle-de-dee.
  And youth has yet to learn to act and see,
  And youth is well-advised that trusts to Me!

  "Hope and good cheer! This youngster's fate who knows?
  Sun, rain, and frost will greet him ere life's close;
  From the great dark to the great dark he goes."

  So MERLIN, riddling, answered them; but thou,
  Fear not to face thy fate, O sea-born Child!
  Young Ninety-Two! Great Bards of thee may sing
  Hereafter; and great sayings from of old
  Ranging and ringing thro' the minds of men,
  Of Progress, and Improvement, and of Peace,
  Of nobler Work, and a more ample Wage,
  Of wider culture, and of worthier joys,
  Larger attainments, and less coarse desires,
  And gentler tastes; these shall be heard of youth.
  And echo'd by old folk beside their fires,
  For comfort after _their_ wage-work is done--
  No workhouse fires, but cosy fires of Home!--
  These thee shall greet, PUNCH-MERLIN, in thy time,
  Shall voice them also, not in jest, and swear,
  Though men may wound Truth, that she will not die,
  But pass, again to come; and, then or now,
  Utterly smite foul Falsehood underfoot,
  Till, with PUNCH, all men hail her for their Queen!

       *       *       *       *       *



  Spring = The Clog Days.
  Summer = The Dog Days.
  Autumn = The Bog Days.
  Winter = The Fog Days.

       *       *       *       *       *

ATRABILIOUS LIVERPOOL.--The City Council of Liverpool--notwithstanding
the generous urgings of its more important members--refuses to bestow
the "honour of" the freedom "of that City" upon its illustrious
if--from their point of view--errant son, Mr. GLADSTONE. As Madame
ROLAND _ought_ to have said:--O "Freedom," what liberties are taken
(with common sense and good feeling) in thy name!

       *       *       *       *       *



    HERE IS AN HEIR FOR NINETY-ONE!'"--_Adapted from Tennyson's "Coming
        of Arthur."_]

       *       *       *       *       *




  Just take a look round, most respectable Madam;
    New Year's Day is an excellent time for the task,
  When serious thoughts come to each son of Adam
    Who dares to peep under Convention's smug mask.
  Your sword looks a little bit rusty and notched, Ma'am;
    Your scales now and then hang a trifle askew;
  A lot of your Ministers need to be watched, Ma'am!
    _Punch_ isn't quite pleased with the prospect--are you?
  If one could but take a wide survey, though summary,
    Of _all_ the strange "sentences" passed in one year
  By persons called "Justices"--(yes, it _sounds_ flummery)
    Justice would look like Burlesque, Ma'am, I fear.
  Excellent subject for whimsical GILBERT,
    But not a nice spectacle, Madam, for me.
  Long spell of "chokee" for prigging a--filbert
    (Given, you bet, by some rural J.P.);
  Easy let-off for a bogus "Promoter,"
    Helping the ruin of hundreds for gain;
  Six months for stealing a turnip or "bloater,"
    Ditto for bashing a wife on the brain:
  Sentences cut to one-twelfth on appealing,
    Judges and juries at loggerheads quite!
  Really each day brings some curious revealing,
    Putting you, Ma'am, in a very strange light.
  Take my advice, Ma'am, this bright New Year's morning,
    Give a look up to your agents all round;
  To some give the sack, and to others a warning;
  The Public will back up your move, I'll be bound!

       *       *       *       *       *

GREEK MEETS GREEK.--"What!" exclaimed an indignant scholar, who had
not peeped into a Classic for some forty years, "no more compulsory
Greek at our Universities! What are we coming to? All I can say is,
'_Absit omen_'!" "'Scuse me!" replied his friend, who was all for the
new learning, "but I should say, '_Absit Homer_'!"

       *       *       *       *       *


  To a Card-player          A Nappy     }
  To a Smart Girl           A "Snappy"  }
  To a Flirt                A "Chappy"  }
  To an Old Maid            A Cappy     }
  To an Infant              A Pappy     }
  To a Pigeon-shot          A Trappy    }
  To an Explorer            A Mappy     } New Year to you!
  To a Student              A Sappy     }
  To a Cross Child          A Slappy    }
  To an aspiring Pugilist   A "Scrappy" }
  To a Spiritualist         A Tappy     }
  To a Toper                A "Lappy"   }
  To _Toby_                 A Yappy     }
  To a Snuff-taker          A Rappee    }

       *       *       *       *       *


_H-r M-j-sty_.--The hearty congratulations of a loyal and united

_The Pr-nce and Pr-nc-ss_.--The most welcome of daughters-in-law.

_Prince Alb-rt V-ct-r_.--MAY in February.

_The Rest of the R-y-l F-m-ly_.--The best of wishes from everybody.

_L-rd S-l-sb-ry_.--A General Election.

_Mr. Arth-r B-lf-r_.--A Translation from the Irish.

_Mr. J. Ch-mb-rl-n_.--Promotion.

_Sir W-ll-m H-rc-rt_.--A Vision of the Woolsack.

_The Cz-r of R-ss-a_.--A Vision of another sort of Sack.

_The G-rm-n Emp-r-r_. New toys personally selected.

_President C-rn-t_.--The compliments of the Marquis of DUFFERIN.

_Herr Ibs-n_.--A tale without a plot.

_Mr. R-dy-rd K-pl-ng_.--Quite another story.

_The Corporation of L-v-rp-l_.--The Freedom of the Grand Old Man.

_The Gr-nd Old M-n_.--The loss of the Corporation of Liverpool.

_And Mr. P-nch_.--Tons of material (voluntarily contributed) for the
Grand Old Waste Paper Basket.

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: Bos Locutus Est!]

    [One of the Delegates at the Conference on Rural Reforms said,
    "We do not want to be bossed by the Parsons"; another, "We
    don't want soup or blankets, but fair play."]

  O GENEROUS gents, who have the "cure of souls,"
  Learn hence that justice wins far more than doles.
  Blankets and soup Dames Bountiful may give,
  But what HODGE craves is a fair chance to live
  On labour fairly paid, not casual boons.
  SALISBURY's "Circuses," and smart buffoons,
  Won't move him, by "amusement," from that wish.
  Parties may mutually denounce or "dish;"
  But what will win the Labourer for a friend
  Is Home and Work, without the Workhouse end!
  Listen! Those who heed not will bide the loss,
  For _Bos locutus est,--against the_ "_Boss_"!

       *       *       *       *       *




  Who, as our Dresden's wreck we scanned,
  Protested, with assurance bland,
  "It come to pieces in my 'and"?
      My Housemaid.

  Who "tidies" things each Monday morn,
  And hides--until, with search outworn,
  I wish I never had been born?
      My Housemaid.

  Who "turns" my study "out" that day,
  And then contrives to pitch away
  As "rubbish" (which it is) my Play?
      My Housemaid.

  Who guards within her jealous care,
  Mending or marking, till I swear,
  The underclothes I long to wear?
      My Housemaid.

  Who cultivates a habit most
  Perverse, of running to "The Post"
  To meet her brothers (_such_ a host!)?
      My Housemaid.

  Who, _if_ she spends her "Sundays out"
  At Chapel, as she does, no doubt,
  Must be protractedly devout?
      My Housemaid.

  Who takes my novels down (it must
  Be, as she vows, of course, "to dust"),
  And thumbs them, much to my disgust?
      My Housemaid.

  Who "can't abide" a play or ball,
  But dearly loves a Funeral,
  Or Exeter's reproachless Hall?
      My Housemaid.

  Who late returning thence, in fits
  Of what she terms "Histories," sits,--
  _And this day month my service quits_?
      My Housemaid.

       *       *       *       *       *

QUITE CLEAR.--"_Aha! mon ami_," exclaimed our friend JULES, during the
recent murky weather in Town, "you ask me the difference between our
Paris and your London. _Tenez_, I will tell you. Paris is always _très
gai, veritablement gai_; but London is _toujours faux gai_--you see it
is always fo-gay." And he meant "fog-gy." Well, he wasn't far wrong,
just now.

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *



    SCENE--_The Steps of the Hotel Dandolo, about 11 A.M. PODBURY
    is looking expectantly down the Grand Canal, CULCHARD is
    leaning upon the balustrade._

_Podbury_. Yes, met BOB just now. They've gone to the Europa, but
we've arranged to take a gondola together, and go about. They're
to pick me up here. Ah, that looks rather like them. (_A gondola
approaches, with Miss PRENDERGAST and BOB; PODBURY goes down the
steps to meet them._) How are you, Miss PRENDERGAST? Here I _am_,
you see.

[Illustration: "I guess you want to Cologne _your_ cheeks!"]

_Miss Prendergast_t (_ignoring C.'s salute_). How do you do, Mr.
PODBURY? Surely you don't propose to go out in a gondola in _that_

_Podb._ (_taking off a brown "pot-hat," and inspecting it_). It--it's
quite _decent_. It was new when I came away!

_Bob_ (_who is surly this morning_). Hang it all, 'PATIA! Do you want
him to come out in a chimney-pot? Jump in, old fellow; never mind your

_Podb._ (_apologetically_). I had a straw one--but I sat on it. I'm
awfully sorry, Miss PRENDERGAST. Look here, shall I go and see if I
can buy one?

_Miss P._ Not now--it doesn't signify, for once. But around hat and a
gondola are really _too_ incongruous!

_Podb._ Are they? A lot of the Venetians seem to wear 'em. (_He steps
in._) Now what are we going to do--just potter about?

_Miss P._ One hardly comes to Venice to _potter_! I thought we'd go
and study the Carpaccios at the Church of the Schiavoni first--they
won't take us more than an hour or so; then cross to San Giorgio
Maggiore, and see the Tintorets, come back and get a general idea of
the exterior of St. Mark's, and spend the afternoon at the Accademia.

_Podb._ (_with a slight absence of heartiness_). Capital!
And--er--lunch at the Academy, I suppose?

_Miss P._ There does not happen to be a restaurant there--we shall
see what time we have. I must say _I_ regard every minute of daylight
spent on food here as a sinful waste.

_Bob_. Now just look here, 'PATIA, if you _are_ bossing this show, you
needn't go cutting us off our grub! What do _you_ say, JEM?

_Podb._ (_desperately anxious to please_). Oh, I don't know that I
care about lunch myself--much.

    [_Their voices die away on the water._

_Culch._ (_musing_). She might have _bowed_ to me!... _She_ has
escaped the mosquitoes.... Ah, well, I doubt if she'll find those two
particularly sympathetic companions! Now I _should_ enjoy a day spent
in that way. Why shouldn't I, as it is? I daresay MAUD will--

    [_Turns and sees Mr. TROTTER._

_Mr. T._ My darter will be along presently. She's Cologning her
cheeks--they've swelled up again some. I guess you want to Cologne
_your_ cheeks--they're dreadful lumpy. I've just been on the
Pi-azza again, Sir. It's curious now the want of enterprise in these
Vernetians. Anyone would have expected they'd have thrown a couple or
so of girder-bridges across the canal between this and the Ri-alto,
and run an elevator up the Campanile--but this ain't what you might
call a _business_ city, Sir, and that's a fact. (_To Miss T. as she
appears._) Hello, MAUD, the ice-water cool down your face any?

_Miss T._ Not _much_. My face just made that ice-water boil over. I
don't believe I'll ever have a complexion again--it's divided up
among several dozen mosquitoes, who've no use for one. But it's vurry
consoling to look at _you_, Mr. CULCHARD, and feel there's a pair
of us. Now what way do you propose we should endeavor to forget our

_Culch._ Well, we might spend the morning in St. Mark's--?

_Miss T._ The morning! Why, Poppa and I saw the entire show I inside
of ten minutes, before breakfast!

_Culch._ Ah! (_Discouraged._) What do you say to studying the Vine and
Fig-tree angles and the capitals of the arcades in the Ducal Palace? I
will go and fetch the _Stones of Venice_.

_Miss T._ I guess you can leave those old stones in peace. I don't
feel like studying up anything this morning--it's as much as ever I
can do not to scream aloud!

_Culch._ Then shall we just drift about in a gondola all the morning,
and--er--perhaps do the Academy later?

_Miss T._ Not any canals in this hot sun for me! I'd be just as
_sick_! That gondola will keep till it's cooler.

_Culch._ (_losing patience_). Then I must really leave it to you to
make a suggestion!

_Miss T._ Well, I believe I'll have a good look round the curiosity
stores. There's ever such a cunning little shop back of the Clock
Tower on the Pi-azza, where I saw some brocades that were just too
sweet! So I'll take Poppa along bargain-hunting. Don't _you_ come if
you'd rather poke around your old churches and things!

_Culch._ I don't feel disposed to--er--"poke around" alone; so, if you
will allow me to accompany you,--

_Miss T._ Oh, I'll allow you to escort me. It's handy having someone
around to carry parcels. And Poppa's bound to drop the balance every

_Culch._ (_to himself_). That's all I am to her. A beast of
burden! And a whole precious morning squandered on this confounded
shopping--when I might have been--ah, well! [_Follows, under protest._

_On the Grand Canal. 9 P.M. A brilliant moonlight night; a
music-barge, hung with coloured lanterns, is moving slowly up towards
the Rialto, surrounded and followed by a fleet of gondolas, amongst
which is one containing the TROTTERS and CULCHARD. CULCHARD has
just discovered--with an embarrassment not wholly devoid of a certain
excitement--that they are drawing up to a gondola occupied by the

_Mr. Trotter_ (_meditatively_). It's real romantic. That's the third
deceased kitten I've seen to-night. They haven't only a two-foot tide
in the Adriatic, and it stands to reason all the sewage--

    [_The two gondolas are jammed close alongside._

_Miss P._ How absolutely magical those palaces look in the moonlight!
BOB, how _can_ you yawn like that?

_Bob_. I beg your pardon, 'PATIA, really, but we've had rather a long
day of it, you know!

_Mr. T._ Well, now, I declare I sort of recognised those voices!
(_Heartily._) Why, how are _you_ getting along in Vernis? _We_'re
gettin' along fust-rate. Say, MAUD, here's your friend alongside!

    [_Miss P. preserves a stony silence._

_Miss T._ (_in an undertone_). I don't see how you _can_ act so,
Poppa--when you know she's just as _mad_ with me!

_Mr. T._ There! Electrocuted if I didn't clean forget you were out!
But, see here, now--why cann't we let bygones be bygones?

_Bob_. (_impulsively_). Just what _I_ think, Mr. TROTTER, and I'm sure
my sister will--

_Miss P._ BOB, will you kindly not make the situation more awkward
than it is? If I desired a reconciliation, I think I am quite capable
of saying so!

_Miss T._ (_in confidence to the Moon_). This Ark isn't proposing to
send out any old dove, either--we've no use for an olive-branch. (_To_
Mr. T.) That's "_Santa Lucia_" they're singing now, Poppa.

_Mr. T._ They don't appear to me to get the twist on it they did at

_Miss T._ You mean that night CHARLEY took us out on the Lake?
Poor CHARLEY! he'd just love to be here--he's ever so much artistic

_Mr. T._ Well, I don't see why he couldn't have come along if he'd

_Miss T._ (_with a glance at her neighbour_). I presume he'd reasons
enough. He's a vurry cautious man. Likely he was afraid he'd get

_Miss P._ (_after a swift scrutiny of Miss T.'s features_). Oh, BOB,
remind me to get some more of that mosquito stuff. I _should_ so hate
to be bitten--such a _dreadful_ disfigurement!

_Miss T._ (_to the Moon_). I declare if I don't believe I can feel
some creature trying to sting me now!

_Miss P._ Some people are hardly recognisable, BOB, and they say the
marks never _quite_ disappear!

_Miss T._ Poppa, don't you wonder what CHARLEY's doing just now? I'd
like to know if he's found anyone yet to feel an interest in the great
Amurrcan Novel. It's curious how interested people do get in that
novel, considering it's none of it written, and never will be. I guess
sometimes he makes them believe he means something by it. They don't
understand it's only CHARLEY's way!

_Miss P._ The crush isn't quite so bad now. Mr. PODBURY, if you
will kindly ask your friend not to hold on to our gondola, we should
probably be better able to turn. (CULCHARD, _who had fondly imagined
himself undetected, takes his hand away as if it were scorched._) Now
we can get away. (_To Gondolier._) Voltiamo, se vi piace, prestissimo!

    [_The gondola turns and departs._

_Miss T._ Well, I do just enjoy making PRENDERGAST girl perfectly
wild, and that's a fact. (_Reflectively._) And it's queer, but I like
her ever so much all the time. Don't _you_ think that's too fonny of
me, Mr. CULCHARD, now?

    [_CULCHARD feigns a poetic abstraction._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: OVER TIME IN LEAP YEAR.]

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: Only Fancy!]

We are supplied by our special reporter with some interesting and
significant facts in connection with the last Cabinet Council. Lord
SALISBUY arrived early, walking over from the Foreign Office under
cover of an umbrella. The fact that it was raining may only partly
account for this manoeuvre. Lord CROSS arrived in a four-wheeled
cab and wore his spectacles. Lord KNUTSFORD approached the Treasury
walking on the left hand side of the road going westward, whilst Lord
CRANBROOK deliberately chose the pavement on the other side of the
way. This is regarded as indicating a coolness between the Colonial
Office and the Council of Education. Lord HALSBURY alighted from a bus
at the bottom of Downing Street, accomplishing the rest of the journey
on foot. He wore a new suit of the latest fashionable cut and a smile.
Mr. STANHOPE, approaching Downing Street from the steps, started
violently when he caught sight of a figure on the steps of the
Treasury fumbling with the door-handle. He thought it was "VETUS," but
recognising the Home Secretary, advanced without further hesitation.
Lord GEORGE HAMILTON walked arm-in-arm as far as the door with Sir
M. HICKS-BEACH. Here they were observed to hastily relieve themselves
from contiguity and enter in single file. As they had up to that
moment been engaged in earnest conversation, this little incident
caused a sensation among the crowd looking on. The new Chief Secretary
was easily recognised as he descended from his hansom with a sprig
of shamrock in his coat and another of shillelagh in his right hand.
Whilst waiting for change out of eighteenpence he softly whistled
"_God Save Ireland_." Mr. RITCHIE did not appear, pleading influenza.
Our reporter informs us that there is more behind, and that before
the Session is far advanced a change may be looked for at the Local
Government Board.

       *       *       *       *       *


    SCENE--_The Interior of Court during a sensational trial.
    Bench, Bar, and Jury in a state of wild excitement as to what
    will happen next._

_Judge_ (_mysteriously handing note to Bar engaged in the case_). I
have received this letter, which is deeply interesting. It will form
appropriately what I may call our Third Volume. I hand it to Counsel,
but they must keep it entirely to themselves.

_First Leader_ (_after perusal of document_). Did you ever?

_Second Leader_ (_ditto_). No I never!

_Judge_ (_greatly gratified_). I thought I would surprise you! Yes,
it came this afternoon, and I found it too startling to keep all to
myself, so I have revealed the secret, on the condition you tell no
one else.

_First Lead._ You may rely on the discretion of my learned friend, my

_Second Lead._ My Lord, on the discretion of my learned friend you may

_Judge_. Thank you (_dipping his pen in the ink_), and now we will go
on with the case.

    [_A Witness is called--he hides his face under a cloak._

_First Leader_ (_in examination-in-chief_). I think you wish to
preserve your incognito?

_Wit._ (_in sepulchral tones_). I do. But if his Lordship desires it,
I will write my name on a piece of paper and pass it up.

_Judge_. Well, certainly, I think I ought to know everything, and--
(_Receives piece of paper disclosing the information, and starts back
in his chair astonished_). Dear me! Good gracious! Dear me!

_First Lead._ I think I should mention that I have not the
faintest idea who this witness is, and only call him, acting under
instructions. (_To Witness._) Do you know anything about the matter in

_Witness_ (_with a sepulchral laugh_). Ha! ha! ha! Nothing. Your
question is indeed a good joke. Nothing, I repeat, absolutely nothing!

_First Lead._ (_annoyed_). Then you can sit down.

_Second Lead._ (_sharply_). Pardon me--not quite so fast! You say you
know nothing about the matter in dispute, and yet you come here!

_Witness_ (_in a deeper voice than ever_). Exactly.

_Second Lead._ But why, my dear Sir--Why? What is the point of it? Who
may you be?

_Witness_. It is not _may_ be--but who I am!

_Second Lead._ Well, tell us who you are. (_Persuasively._) Come, who
are you?

_Witness_ (_throwing off his disguise_). Who am I? Why, HAWKSHAW the

_Counsel Generally_ (_to Judge_). Then, my Lord, under the altered
circumstances of the case, we can appear no longer before you. (_With
deep and touching emotion._) We retire from the case!

_Judge_ (_not very appropriately_). Then if _Box and Cox_ are
satisfied, all I can say is that I am. I may add that I consider that
the case has been conducted nobly, and that I knew how it would end
from the very first. I am thoroughly satisfied.

_Jury_. And so are we, my Lord--never so interested in our lives!

_Newspaper Editor_ (_departing_). Ah, if we only had a trial like
this every day, we should require but one line on the Contents Bill!

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *

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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