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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, January 9, 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, January 9, 1892" ***

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VOL. 102.

January 9, 1892.



[Illustration: Second Week. Little 1892 grows rapidly, and begins to
look about him.]

  My fire was low; my bills were high;
    My sip of punch was in its ladle;
  The clarion chimes were in the sky;
    The nascent year was in its cradle.
  In sober prose to tell my tale,
    'Twas New Year's E'en, when, blind to danger,
  All older-fashioned nurses hail
    With joy "another little stranger."

  The glass was in my hand--but, wait,
    Methought, awhile! 'Tis early toasting
  With pæans too precipitate
    A baby scarce an outline boasting:
  One week at least of life must flit
    For me to match it with its brothers--
  I'll wager, like most infants, it
    Is wholly different from others.

  He frolics, latest of the lot,
    A family prolific reckoned;
  He occupies his tiny cot,
    The eighteen-hundred-ninety-second!
  The pretty darling, gently nursed
    Of course, he lies, and fondly petted!
  The eighteen-hundred-ninety-first
    Is not, I fancy, much regretted.

  You call him "fine"--he's great in size,
    And "promising"--there issue from his
  Tough larynx quite stentorian cries;
    Such notes are haply notes of promise.
  Look out for squalls, _I_ tell you; soft
    And dove-like atoms more engage us;
  Your _fin-de-siècle_ child is oft
    Loud, brazen, grasping, and rampageous.

  You bid me next his eyes adore;
    So "deep and wideawake," they beckon;
  We've suffered lately on the score
    Of "deep and wideawake," I reckon.
  You term me an "unfeeling brute,"
    A "monster Herod-like," and so on--
  You may be right; I'll not dispute;
    I'll cease a brat's good name to blow on.

  Who'll read the bantling's dawning days?--
    Precocious shall he prove, and harass
  The world with inconvenient ways
    And lisped conundrums that embarrass?
  (Such as Impressionists delight
    To offer each æsthetic gaper,
  And faddists hyper-Ibsenite
    Rejoice to perpetrate on paper?)

  Or, one of those young scamps perhaps
    Who love to rig their bogus bogies,
  And set their artful booby-traps
    For over-unsuspicious fogies?
  Or haply, only commonplace--
    A plodding sort of good apprentice,
  Who does his master's will with grace,
    And hurries meekly where he sent is?

  And, when he grows apace, what blend
    Of genius, chivalry and daring,
  What virtues might our little friend
    Display to brighten souls despairing?
  What quiet charities unknown,
    What modest, openhanded kindness,
  What tolerance in touch and tone
    For braggart human nature's blindness?

  Or what--the worser part to view--
    Of wanton waste and reckless gambling,
  What darker paths shall he pursue
    With sacrilegious step and shambling?
  What coarse defiance, haply, hurl
    At lights beyond his comprehension--
  An attitudinising churl
    Who struts with ludicrous pretension.

  I know not--only this I know,
    They're getting overstrained, my ditties,
  This kind of poem ought to flow
    Less like a solemn "_Nunc Dimittis_."
  'Twas jaunty when I struck my lyre,
    And jaunty seems this yearling baby;
  But, as both year and song expire
    They're sadder, each, and wiser, maybe.

       *       *       *       *       *


"_Hi-tiddley-hi-ti; or, I'm All Right_" is heard, "all over the
place," as light sleepers and studious dwellers in quiet streets are
too well aware. Why should it not be enlisted in the service of Apollo
and Momus as well as of the Back Slum Bacchus? As thus:--




    I'm a young writer grimly gay,
    My volumes sell, and sometimes pay.
  First log-rollers raised a rumour of a rising Star of Humour,
    Who had faced the Sphinx called Life,
    With amusing misery rife,
  So with sin, and woe, and strife, I thought I'd have a lark.
    With pessimistic pick I pottered round
            Pottered round,
    A new "funny" trick I quickly found,
            Smart and sound,
    Life's cares in hedonistic chuckles drowned,
            You be bound!
            The cynic lay
            I found would pay,
          In a young Man of Mark!


    All of you come along with me!
    I'm for a rare new fine new spree!
  Everybody is delighted when the Philistines are slighted,
    All of you come my books to try!
    I-twaddley-I-ti I-I-I,
    Ego for ever! Buy! Buy! Buy!
            And _I_'m all right!

    Down with the West I go; my pen
    Is bound to "fetch" the Upper Ten,
  With the aid of some "log-rolling," my "distinction" much extolling.
    Smart little scribes from near and far
    Say, with a sniff, "O here's a Star!"
  DICKENS on fine souls doth jar, THACKERAY is too dry,
    But _his_ pessimistic air, rich and rare,
            Subtle, fair,
    Makes Philistia to stare, in a scare,
            And to blare;
    Whilst true Critics _débonnaire_, who are rare,
            With a _flaire_,
            For true humour,
            Swell of rumour
          The gregarious cry.


    All of you come along with me!
    You'll have a rare new fair new spree!
  Paradox with "sniff" united, Poor Humanity snubbed and slighted.
    Humour's new _cuvée_, extra-dry.
  I-twaddley--high-dry-high-toned I!
  Come and worship the pessimist "I"
            For _that's_ all right!

    After I've taken the toffish Town,
    A second edition, at Half-a-crown,
  Seeks the suffrages--(and _money_, for on Swelldom you'll go "stoney")--
    Of the much derided Mob.
    Yes, the Proletariat "Bob"
  (With the Guinea of the Nob) must aid the Sons of Light.
    Gath and Askelon, you see, can give Me,
    All true Egoists love those pregnant letters
            Mystic Three!
  Flout Philistia with great glee, fair and free,
            But agree
            To take its "tin,"
            Though with a grin
          Of pessimistic spite.


    All of you come along with me!
    'ARRY, who loves a fair old spree!
  "Mugwump" with fine _morgue_ delighted, Cynic at "yearnestness" sore frighted!
    All of you come my "tap" to try!
    I-twaddley-high-dry-high-toned I!
  Come along, boys, Buy! Buy! Buy!
            And _I_'m all right!

       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *



    (_In which Jim Juniper, better known as "Ginger Jimmy,"
    discourses of Homes and Open Spaces, &c., and, puts a
    practical problem to the new "Public Health, and Housing
    Committee of the London County Council._")

  My name is GINGER JIMMY, and I live, when I'm to hum,
  In Rats Rents, the kind o' nay'brood wot the Swells now calls a Slum.
  I'm a bit thick in the clear, like, and don't quite know wot they mean,
  But I guess it isn't mansions, and I'm sure it isn't _clean_.

  They are always on the job now about Slums, and they do say
  They are going to clear _our_ Court out on the suddent some fine day.
  Whether it's roads, or railways, or hotels, blowed if _I_ know;
  Only 'ope they'll give us notice, and some place where we can go.

  'One _is_ 'ome, if but a dungheap; if you're pitchforked out of that,
  And turned loose in chilly London on the scoop, like a stray cat,
  With yer bits o' sticks permiskus in a barrer or a truck,
  I can tell yer you feels lost like, and fair down upon yer luck.

  Heviction? When you're stoney-broke, your dubs all hup the spout,
  And you've nix to raise the rent on, I suppose you _must_ turn hout;
  'Cos without them "rights o' proputty" no country couldn't jog;
  But that brings a cove small comfort when 'e's 'ouseless, in a fog!

  I 'ave knocked about a middlin' little bit, you bet I 'ave,
  And I ain't what Barber BIDDLECOMBE would call "a heasy shave";
  But these Sanitary codgers give me beans, and no mistake.
  I am fly to most all capers, but don't tumble to _their_ fake.

  Seems to me all sentimental jor and cold chuck-out, it do.
  They may call their big Committees, and may chat till all is blue,
  But to shift me till they gives me somethink sweeter is all rot;
  Better leave my garret winder, and the flower in the pot.

  That gerenum there looks proper; which I bought it of a bloke
  What does the "All a-blowin'!" with a barrer and a moke;
  And though tuppences is tuppences, I ain't so jolly sure
  As to spend two-d. upon it were to play the blooming cure

  NICKY SPRIGGINS did chi-ike me. Reglar nubbly one is NOCK,
  With about as much soft feelink as a blessed butcher's block.
  He'd a made a spiffing Club Swell if he'd ony 'ad the chink,
  With them lips like a ham sandwidge, and them eyes as never blink.

  And _I_ ain't no softy, neither, bet your buttons. That don't pay,
  For you're 'bliged to keep yer eyes peeled and to twig the time o' day;
  But I've got a mash on flowers; they are better than four 'arf,
  Them red blazers in my winder; so let NOCKY 'ave his larf!

  NOCKY tells me that the Westry means a-clearin' hout our place
  For to make a bit o' garding, wot they calls a Hopen Space,
  O _I_ know the sort o' fakement, gravel walks, a patch o' grass,
  And a sprinkle of young lime-trees of yer Thames Embankment class.

  Some bloke spots the place as likely, and praps buys it on the cheap,
  (Spekylators keeps _their_ lids hup though the parish nobs may sleep,)
  Pooty soon the pot's a-bilin' about Hopen Spaces. Yus!
  And the chap as bought the bit o' ground is fust to raise the fuss.

  Recreation for the People, Hopen Playgrounds for the Young!
  That's the patter of the platformers; and don't they jest give tongue!
  Well, it's opened with a flourish, and there's everyone content;
  Pertiklerly the landlords round as nobbles better rent.

  But _I_ don't object to gardings, not a'mossel--t'other quite;
  As I've said, a bit of green stuff and a flower is my delight;
  I wish London wos _more_ hopen, and more greener, and more gay;
  Only people down our Court has got to _live_ as well as _play_.

  If they clears out the arf acre where we huddles orful close,
  We must all turn out, that's certain; where we'll turn to, goodness knows;
  And it won't be werry spashus, the new "Park" won't, arter all,
  With the graveyard railinks one side, and on t'other a blank wall.

  Wot we want is decent 'ouses, at a rent as doesn't take
  'Arf a cove's poor screw to pay it. That _'a_ the present landlord's fake!
  If they only knowed 'ow 'ard it is to meet "Saint Monday" square,
  When yer ealth is werry middlin', and the jobs is werry rare!

  P'raps them Dooks, and Earls, and Marquiges, and Kernels, wot they states
  Has just clubbed theirselves together to keep down the bloomin' Rates,
  And to smash the Kounty Kouncil, as they've bunnicked the Skool Board,
  Jest a few of their hodd moments to _our_ naybrood might afford.

  They _must_ 'ave a feelink 'art towards the poor, and no mistake,
  Or they wouldn't take sech trouble for the poor Ratepayers' sake,
  NOCKY SPRIGGENS sez it 'minds 'im of a League of Loving Cats
  To purtect from traps and pizen the poor mice and starvin' rats.

  Jest like NOCKY's narsty way that is! But if them Dooks would try
  To assist the Kounty Kouncil in their new Committee--wy,
  They might 'elp our Health and Housing in a style as none could mock,
  Give the proud "Pergressives" what-for, and fair put the shut on NOCK.

  Arter all yer Public Garding's little better than a chouse,
  While the landlord rents yer heart out for a wretched Privit 'Ouse.
  And yer Hopen Space's pootiness ain't much good to _our_ sort,
  Who are shut up in the dismal dens called 'Omes, gents, down our Court.

  Oh, Philanterpists, and Sanitrys, and Dooks, I do not mean
  To be rucking upon Charity, or rounding on wot's clean;
  But _if_ yer wants to 'elp us as has lived so long in muck,
  The _only_ thing wot's wanted ain't to give us the clean--chuck!

       *       *       *       *       *


_Sir Biggan Burleigh_ (_who doesn't see why he shouldn't have a
turn in his own house, to very young Lady_). "MISS VIOLET,--ROUND OR

_Miss Violet_ (_her first ball, very bashful_). "WELL--REALLY--SIR

       *       *       *       *       *


_Q._ What is meant by "Higher Education?"

_'Arry_. Getting a Tutor at so much a week. That's the way _I_ should
'ire education--if I wanted it.

       *       *       *       *       *

A DEFINITION.--"A pun on a word is a _new sense_."--Dr. JOHNSON,

       *       *       *       *       *



    SCENE--_The Campo S.S. Giovanni e Paolo. Afternoon. CULCHARD
    is leaning against the pedestal of the Colleoni Statue_.

_Podbury_ (_who has just come out of S. Giovanni, recognising
CULCHARD_). Hullo! _alone_, eh? Thought you were with Miss TROTTER?

_Culchard_. So I am. That is, she is going over a metal-worker's
show-room close by, and I--er--preferred the open air. But didn't you
say you were going out with the--er--PRENDERGASTS again?

_Podb._ So I am. She's in the Church with BOB, so I said I'd come out
and keep an eye on the gondola. Nothing much to see in _there_, you

_Culch._ (_with a weary irony_). Only the mausoleums of the
Doges--RUSKIN's "Street of the Tombs"--and a few trifles of that sort!

[Illustration: "I guess you're about the most unselfish Saint on two

_Podb._ That's all. And I'm feeling a bit done, you know. Been doing
the Correr Museum all the morning, and not lunched yet! So Miss
TROTTER's looking at ornamental metal-work? Rather fun that, eh?

_Culch._ For those who enjoy it. She has only been in there an hour,
so she is not likely to come back just yet. What do you say to coming
into S.S. Giovanni e Paolo again, with _me_? Those tombs form a really
remarkable illustration, as RUSKIN points out, of the gradual decay

_Miss Trotter_ (_suddenly flutters up, followed by an attendant
carrying a studded halberd, an antique gondola-hook, and two copper
water-buckets--all of which are consigned to the disgusted CULCHARD_).
Just hold these a spell till I come back. Thanks ever so much....
Well, Mr. PODBURY! Aren't you going to admire my purchases? They're
real antique--or if they aren't, they'll wear all the better....
There, I believe I'll just have to run back a minute--don't you put
those things in the gondola yet, Mr. CULCHARD, or they'll get stolen.

    [_She flutters off._

_Culch._ (_helplessly, as he holds the halberd, &c._). I suppose I
shall have to stay _here_ now. You're not going?

_Podb._ (_consulting his watch_). Must. Promised old BOB I'd relieve
guard in ten minutes. Ta-ta!

    [_He goes; presently BOB PRENDERGAST lounges out of the

_Culch._ If I could only make a friend of _him_! (_To BOB._) Ah,
PRENDERGAST! lovely afternoon, isn't it? Delicious breeze!

_Bob_. (_shortly_). Can't say. Not had much of it, at present.

_Culch._ You find these old churches rather oppressive, I daresay.
Er--will you have a cigarette? [_Tenders case._

_Bob_. Thanks; got a pipe. (_He lights it._) Where's Miss TROTTER?

_Culch._ She will be here presently. By the way, my dear PRENDERGAST,
this--er--misunderstanding between your sister and her is very

_Bob_. I know that well enough. It's none of _my_ doing! And _you_'ve
no reason to complain, at all events!

_Culch._ Quite so. Only, you see, we _used_ to be good friends at
Constance, and--er--until recently--

_Bob_. Used we? Of course, if you say so, it's all right. But what are
you driving at exactly?

_Culch._ All I am driving at is this: Couldn't we two--er--agree to
effect a reconciliation between the two ladies? So much pleasanter
for--er--all parties!

_Bob_. I daresay. But how are you going to set about it? _I_ can't

_Culch._ Couldn't you induce your sister to lay aside
her--er--prejudice against me? Then _I_ could easily--

_Bob_. Very likely--but I _couldn't_. I never interfere in my sister's
affairs, and, to tell you the honest truth, I don't feel particularly
inclined to make a beginning on your account. [_Strolls away._

_Culch._ (_to himself_). What a surly boor it is! But I don't
care--I'll do him a good turn, in spite of himself! (_Miss T.
returns_.) Do you know, I've just been having a chat with poor young
PRENDERGAST. He seems quite cut up at being forced to side with his
sister. I undertook to--er--intercede for him. Now is it quite
fair, or like your--er--usual good-nature, to visit his sister's
offences--whatever they are--on him? I--I only put it to you.

_Miss T._ Well, to think now! I guess you're about the most unselfish
Saint on two legs! Now some folks would have felt jealous.

_Culch._ Possibly--but I cannot accuse myself of such a failing as

_Miss T._ I'd just like to hear you accuse yourself of _any_ failing!
I don't see however you manage to act so magnanimous and live. I told
you I wanted to study your character, and I believe it isn't going to
take me vurry much longer to make up my mind about _you_. You _don't_
suppose I'll have any time for Mr. PRENDERGAST after getting such a
glimpse into your nature? There, help me into the gondola, and don't
talk any more about it. Tell him to go to Salviati's right away.

_Culch._ (_dejectedly, to himself_). I've bungled it! I might have
_known_ I should only make matters worse!

    _On the Piazzetta; it is moonlight, the Campanile and dome of
    San Giorgio Maggiore are silhouetted sharp and black against
    the steel-blue sky across a sea of silver ripples. PODBURY
    and CULCHARD are pacing slowly arm-in-arm between the two

_Culch._ And so you went on to S. Giovanni in Bragora, eh? then over
the Arsenal, and rowed across the lagoons to see the Armenian convent?
A delightful day, my dear PODBURY! I hope you--er--appreciate the
inestimable privileges of--of seeing Venice so thoroughly?

_Podb._ Oh, of course it's very jolly. Find I get a trifle mixed
afterwards, though. And, between ourselves, I wouldn't mind--now and
then, you know--just dawdling about among the shops and people, as you
and the TROTTERS do!

_Culch._ That has its charms, no doubt. But don't you find Miss
PRENDERGAST a mine of information on Italian Art and History?

_Podb._ Don't I just--rather too _deep_ for me, y' know! I say, isn't
Miss TROTTER immense sport in the shops and that!

_Culch._ She is--er--vivacious, certainly. (_PODBURY sighs_.) You seem
rather dull to-night, my dear fellow?

_Podb._ Not dull--a trifle out of sorts, that's all. Fact is, I don't
think Venice agrees with me. All this messing about down beastly
back-courts and canals and in stuffy churches--it _can't_ be healthy,
you know! And they've _no_ drainage. I only hope I haven't caught
something, as it is. I've that kind of sinking feeling, and a general
lowness--_She_ says I lunch too heavily--but I swear it's more than

_Culch._ Nonsense, you're well enough. And why you should feel low,
with all your advantages--in Venice as you are, and in constant
intercourse with a mind adorned with every feminine gift!

_Podb._ Hul-lo! why, I thought you called her a pedantic prig?

_Culch._ If I used such a term at all, it was in no disparaging sense.
Every earnest nature presents an--er--priggish side at times. I know
that even I myself have occasionally, and by people who didn't _know_
me, of course, been charged with priggishness.

_Podb._ Have you, though? But of course there's nothing of that about
_her_. Only--well, it don't signify. [_He sighs._

_Culch._ Ah, PODBURY, take the good the gods provide you and be
content! You might be worse off, believe me!

_Podb._ (_discontentedly_). It's all very well for _you_ to talk--with
Miss TROTTER all to yourself. I suppose you're regularly engaged by
this time, eh?

_Culch._ Not quite. There's still a ----. And your probation, that's
practically at an end?

_Podb._ I don't know. Can't make her out. She wouldn't sit on me the
way she does unless she _liked_ me, I suppose. But I say, it must be
awf--rather jolly for you with Miss TROTTER? She's got so much _go_,

_Culch._ You used to say she wasn't what you call cultivated.

_Podb._ I know I did. That's just what I like about her! At
least--well, we _both_ ought to think ourselves uncommonly lucky
beggars, I'm sure! [_He sighs more heavily than ever._

_Culch._ You especially, my dear PODBURY. In fact, I doubt if you're
half grateful enough!

_Podb._ (_snappishly_). Yes, I am, I tell you. _I_'m not grumbling,
am I? I know as well as you do she's miles too good for me. Haven't I
_said_ so? Then what the devil do you keep on nagging at me for, eh?

_Culch._ I am glad you see it in that light. Aren't you a little
irritable to-night?

_Podb._ No, I'm not. It's those filthy canals. And the way you
talk--as if a girl like Miss TROTTER wasn't--!

_Culch._ I really can't allow you to lecture me. I am not insensible
to my good-fortune--if others are. Now we'll drop the subject.

_Podb._ I'm willing enough to drop it. And I shall turn in now--it's
late. You coming?

_Culch._ Not yet. Good-night. (_To himself, as PODBURY departs._)
You insensate _dolt_!

_Podb._ Good-night! (_To himself, as he swings off._) Confounded
patronising _prig_!

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: Little Tich and the Fine Fairy.]

That hardy annual known as The Drury Lane Pantomime is in full vigour
this year, its flowers of a more brilliant colour than ever, and its
leaves, as evidenced by the book of words, are fresh and vigorous.
In no other sense, however, does the Drury Lane Pantomime bear any
resemblance to "a plant." There is no "take in" about it, except that
even big Old Drury is not capable of holding all who would be present;
and so it happens nightly I believe, that many are turned away from
the doors bitterly disappointed. Such certainly was the case when the
present deponent was installed,--without any unnecessary ceremony,--on
a certain given night last week. "The book" is by the Every-knightly
DRURIOLANUS and his faithful Esquire, HARRY NICHOLLS, who, much
to everybody's regret, does not on this occasion appear as one of
the exponents of his own work. There are Miss FANNIE LESLIE--too
much "ie" in this name now, and one may ask "for why"?--Miss
MARIE (not "MARY"--oh dear now!) LLOYD, Miss PATTIE--not PATTY of
course--HEYWOOD, Mr. JOHN and Miss EMMA (dear me! _not_ EMMIE!)
D'AUBAN, and Messrs. HERBERT CAMPBELL as a grotesque monarch, Mr.
DAN LENO as _Queen of Hearts_, Mr. FRED WALTON, wonderful in a
frame as the living image of the _Knave of Hearts_, and a crowd of
clever people. But among the entire _dramatis personæ_, first and
foremost, both the least and the greatest, is the impersonator of
_Humpty-Dumpty_ himself, the _Yellow Dwarf_ alias Little TICH, who
shares with the gorgeous spectacle and the exquisite combination of
colours in Scene Eight, _The Wedding_, the first honours of the Great
Drury Lane Annual. It is emphatically a Pantomime for children to see
and to enjoy. The action is so rapid, song succeeds dance, and dance
succeeds song, and permutations and combinations of colour are so
brilliant and so frequent, that anyone who wants full change for his
money and a bonus into the bargain, will find it in the return he
will get for his outlay on visiting the Drury Lane Annual. And now
about the Harlequinade. The "Opening," as it used to be called,
which, terminating with the Grand Transformation Scene, ought to be,
theoretically at least, only the introduction to the real business
of the evening, that is, the "Pantomime business," concludes at
10·45, and allows three-quarters of an hour for what is called "the
Double Harlequinade"--which consists of one old-fashioned English
Pantomime-scene, followed by a comparatively modern--for 'tis not
absolutely "new and original"--French Pantomime-scene, and this
arrangement seems like, so to speak, pitting English Joey against
French Pierrot. This friendly rivalry has had the effect of waking up
the traditional Grimaldian spirit of Pantomime, and Mr. HARRY PAYNE's
scene, besides coming earlier than usual, is, in itself, full of fun
of the good old school-boyish kind; and if the Public, as Jury, is to
award a palm to either competitor, then it must give a hand--which
is much the same thing as "awarding a palm"--to its old friend,
HARRY PAYNE, who, with TULLY LEWIS as _Pantaloon_, has pulled himself
together, and given us a good quarter of an hour of genuine Old
English Pantomime, compared with which the other, though its fooling
is excellent in its own way, is only comic _ballet d'action_ after the
style of _Fun in a Fog_. I think that was the title, but am not sure,
of the gambols with which the MARTINETTI _troupe_ used to entertain
us. The new and improved style of ballet-dancing introduced by the now
celebrated _pas de quatre_ at the Gaiety, is charming, as here and now
represented by Miss MABEL LOVE and her graceful companions.

[Illustration: "'_Fin de siècle_' Clown! Why I've seen that sort o'
thing done years ago, when I was a boy!"]

To sum up; as the inspired poet of the immortal ode on Guy Fawkes' Day
saw no reason why that particular treason should ever be forgot, so I,
but uninspired, and only mortal, am unable to ascertain the existence
of any objection to the opinion that this Pantomime possesses staying
power sufficient to carry itself on for an extra long run of several
months over Easter, and, maybe, up to Whitsuntide. There is but one
DRURIOLANUS, and the Pantomime is his Profit! The two authors have
achieved what "all the King's horses and all the King's men" (not of
Cambridge, of course) could not effect!--they have set _Humpty-Dumpty_
on his legs again! And so congratulations to "all concerned"! And,
without prejudice to Sir DRURIOLANUS,

I beg to sign myself, THE OTHER KNIGHT.

       *       *       *       *       *


    ["It is not the patent, obvious results of the inner working
    of mind on which the modern novelist dwells, it is on that
    inner working itself."--_Daily Chronicle_.]

  That odd barrel-organ, the human mind,
    I love to explore; 'tis the analyst's lune;
  But if I can only contrive to find
  How the pipes will grunt, and the handle will grind,
    I don't care a fig for the _tune_!

       *       *       *       *       *

"HIT ONE OF YOUR OWN SIZE."--About the ups or downs of the Alexandra
Palace, Mr. SHAW LEFEVRE shouldn't have a row with a LITTLER,
specially when the LITTLER, who if he, with his friends, take over the
lease of the Alexandra themselves, will then be a Lessor, is pretty
sure to get the best of the discussion.

       *       *       *       *       *

BY A THOUGHTFUL PHILOSOPHER.--Any remedy against London fogs must
involve a grate change.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A GREAT DRAWBACK.

_Dougal_ (_with all his native contempt for the Londoner_). "AYE, MON,



       *       *       *       *       *


    ["It is reasonable to assume that Mr. CHAMBERLAIN will at
    once perceive how his position has been altered by becoming
    the head of a party including many shades of opinion, instead
    of being, as he has been, the spokesman of a small set of
    politicians, earnest, no doubt, and active, but not quite
    in sympathy with all those who shared their fortunes."--_The

    "The arrangements consequent on Lord HARTINGTON's succession
    to the Peerage have very much narrowed the freedom
    previously enjoyed by the Member for West Birmingham, and,
    in a corresponding degree, enlarged the sphere of his
    responsibilities.... The Statesman who has to act as guide and
    moderator at St. Stephen's will be careful, no doubt, not
    to compromise his authority by any indiscreet or extravagant
    insistance on remote and contentious issues."--_The

    SCENE--_St. Stephen's School. Present, Doctor T.,
    Principal, Mrs. S., Matron, and Master JOE, Pupil, lately
    promoted to Monitorship in the Lower School._

_Doctor T._ Ahem! And so, JOSEPH, we have to congratulate you upon

_Master Joe_ (_coolly_). You are very good, Sir, I'm sure.

_Doctor T._ Not at all, JOSEPH, not at all. That is to say--ahem!--you
doubtless deserve it.

_Mrs. S._ Doubtless deserve it, JOSEPH! I always _said_ you would
turn out a better boy than, at one time I--that is to say,
_many_--expected. It is a great consolation to me, JOSEPH, after all
the care--

_Master Joe_ (_aside_). And the numerous jobations!

_Mrs. S._ That I--that we have bestowed upon you, to find--ahem!--our
best hopes so amply fulfilled.

_Dr. T._ _Fulfilled_, JOSEPH; whether amply or not it remains for you
to prove.

_Master Joe_ (_carelessly_). All right, Sir, _I_'ll prove it fast

_Dr. T._ I trust so, JOSEPH, I trust so, though "fast enough"
is _hardly_ the phrase _I_ should have adopted,
or--ahem!--recommended,--in the circumstances!

  "Is there a word wants nobleness and grace,
  Devoid of weight, nor worthy of high place?"

You know what our excellent HORACE bids you do in such a case.

_Master Joe_ (_aside_). Bothersome old _Blimber_!

_Mrs. S._ Yes, JOSEPH, slanginess, carelessness and extravagance of
speech will not befit your present position, you know.

_Master Joe_. (_aside_). Prosy old _Pipchin_!

_Dr. T._ You could not, JOSEPH, put before you a better model than the
boy whose post you assume, in consequence of his going to the
Upper School; young HARTY, I mean, a boy who was ever a pattern of
propriety, and one absolutely to be depended upon to maintain the
prestige of the school, and--ahem!--the authority of the Masters, in
every contingency.

_Mrs. S._ In _every_ contingency, JOSEPH. How unlike that talented,
but untrustworthy, senior of his, and of yours, WILL GLADSTONE; a
lad whose leadership you once acknowledged, but whose pernicious
influence, I am happy to find, you have lately quite cast off.

_Master Joe_ (_knowingly_). Rather! Where there's a WILL there's a
way; and WILL thought it must always be _his_ way. But "not for JOE!"

_Dr. T._ Again, JOSEPH, is not that--ahem!--quotation from the popular
minstrelsy of our time a _leetle_ reminiscent of ruder, and more
Radical days?

_Master Joe_. Perhaps so, Sir, perhaps so. Let me then say that
"_Ego primam tollo, nominor quoniam Leo_" is a very pretty maxim for
lions--and jackals. The former _rôle_ I may not yet have risen to, but
I'm hanged if I'll stoop to the latter.

_Dr. T._ Quite so, quite so! At any rate, not in such a questionable
_Leonina Societas_. Remember, also, JOSEPH, what an awful example you
have in young GRANDOLPH, with whom, at one time, you seemed a little
intimate. You have only to reflect upon _his fiasco_, "to have the
counsels of prudence borne in imperatively upon your mind, and the
lesson will not be the less impressively taught if it is remembered
that GRANDOLPH will be on the spot to take note of and profit by any
mistakes that may be committed by his more deserving and successful

_Master Joe_ (_aside_). Lessons all round, eh? Seems to me all this
grandmotherly advice is wondrous like a "wigging" in disguise. Perhaps
they'll find I'm better at teaching than learning.

_Mrs. S._ _Cavendo tutus_, JOSEPH, safe by caution. The motto of your
predecessor. You cannot do better than take it as your own.

_Master Joe_ (_innocently_). Think not, Ma'am? I fancy every man ought
to have his _own_ motto. Now _I_ was thinking of _Cede nullis_!

[Illustration: THE NEW MONITOR.


_Doctor T._ Tut--tut--tut, JOSEPH! Inappropriate,--in your _present_
position. You will have to yield to _many_,--to those in authority
over you, in fact. "Leaders! (and Monitors) have to subordinate their
personal tastes, and even their individual convictions, to an enlarged
conception of the general advantage."

_Mrs. S._ Yes, JOE, don't, whatever you do, compromise your authority
by any indiscreet or extravagant insistance--

_Master Joe_ (_quickly, though with becoming gravity_). Quite so,
Ma'am! _Very_ true, Sir! My "conceptions," I may say, have "enlarged"
considerably of late, since I have found (as Mrs. S. well says) "how
much of my antipathy" (to the powers that be) "was sheer prejudice."
And, as to "the general advantage," I am sanguine that I shall find it
consonant--if not identical--with my own.

_Doctor T._ (_dubiously_). Humph! Suppose you say _yours_ with _it_,

_Master Joe_ (_airily_). As you please, Sir. Things which are equal to
the same thing are equal to one another, you know.

_Mrs. S._ (_aside_). Smart boy, very! I fancy I should have more
confidence in him if he were a little _less_ so.

_Doctor T._ (_gravely_). You see, JOSEPH, there are some things in
your earlier school career which your well-wishers would fain--forget.
You were rather what is called, I think, "a young Radical" once, not
to say "a bit of a pickle." You seemed not altogether out of sympathy
with such revolutionary proceedings as "revolts" and "barring-outs,"
and even talked once, if I remember rightly, of putting the Principals
"to ransom"--doctrines better worthy of a Calabrian brigand than of a
public school-boy. But let bygones _be_ bygones. Now that you are in
a position of responsibility and--respectability, you will, of course,
abandon all such revolutionary rubbish, and think not of yourself, but
others; consider less the wild wishes of your inferiors than the wise
commands of your betters.

_Master Joe_ (_solemnly_). Oh, of _course_, Sir! And now, if you, _Dr.
Poloni_--ahem!--Dr. T., and _Mrs. Pip_--I mean Mrs. S., have _quite_
finished your wig--I should say wise counsellings, I think I'll--go
out and play! [_Does so._

       *       *       *       *       *

DYNAMITICAL ARGUMENTS.--The Apostles of "the Gospel of Dynamite"
would, if they could, speedily convert a whole town--into a ruin.

       *       *       *       *       *


_Seedy Individual_ (_suddenly and with startling vigour_)--"AOH? FLOY

       *       *       *       *       *


With a spice of _Tristram Shandy_, a dash of _Ferdinand Count Fathom_,
and none the worse for the quaint flavouring thus given to the style
and manner of the romance, _The Blue Pavilions_ by "Q." is about as
good a tale of rapid dramatic and exciting adventure as the Baron
remembers to have read,--for some time at least. There is in it little
enough of love, though that little is well and prettily told, but
there is no lack of fighting at long odds and at short intervals,
of hairbreadth escapes, and of such chances by land and sea as keep
the reader, all agog, hurrying on from point to point, anxious to
see what is to happen next, and how the expected is to eventuate
unexpectedly. The story is for the most part told in a humorous
devil-may-care-believe-it-or-not-as-you-like sort of way which compels
attention, occasionally raises a smile, and always excites curiosity.
As a one-barrel novel, this ought to score a gold right in the centre.

The writer of a little leader in the _Daily News_ of last Wednesday
seems to have been rather hard-up for a subject when he fell foul of
the Messrs. MACMILLAN's cheap re-issue of _A Jest-Book_, compiled many
years ago by _Mr. Punch's_ MARK LEMON, "Uncle MARK," who brought the
ancient _Joe Miller_ up to that particular date. It was the last of
the jest-books, and they are now quite out of fashion. A quarter of
a century hence, no doubt, the fortunate possessor of one of these
little books will come out with many a new jest, and be esteemed quite
an original wit.

It would have been well for the writer of the above-mentioned
leaderette had he referred to the ninth of ELIA's _Popular Fallacies_,
and been thereby reminded how "a pun is a pistol let off at the ear;
and not a feather to tickle the intellect." The Baron is prepared
to admit that the lesson to be learned from this delightful Essay
of CHARLES LAMB's is, that a pun once let off, has fizzled off, and
cannot be repeated with its first effect. Now the honest historian
of this, or of any pun, must reproduce in his narrative all the
circumstances of time, place, and individuality that gave it its
point; but the effect of the pun, the Baron ventures to think, it is
impossible to convey in print to the reader, read he never so wisely,
nor however vividly graphic may be the description. Yet if this same
reader possesses the art of reading aloud, with some approach to the
dramatic Dickensian manner, then, given an appreciative audience, it
is probable that the pun itself would not lose much in recital. At
best, however, the crispness of the original salt is impaired, though
the flavour is not lost by keeping, and the enjoyment of it must
depend on the new seasoning provided by the reciter. Of course,
its piquancy may have been staled by too frequent use--but "this is
another story." After all, is a jest-book meant to be taken seriously?
A question which "_nous donne à penser_," quoth


       *       *       *       *       *


Blest if I know where I am in this murkiness made to benight us, Blest
if I know what it means, this infernal Impressionist etching;

Surely some WHISTLER renowned in the gibbering realms of Cocytus Drew
it--and draws us along through its avenues ghostlily stretching.

Lights flicker out in the gloom, like diminutive goblins that beckon;
Onward we stagger and gasp in the grip of this emanence deadly:

How I would curse if I could, but not RABELAIS even I reckon Language
could find, or a voice if he wished for the sulphurous medley.

Blest if I know who you are, wicked giant, colossal above me, Pluto
perchance or, that fell spirit-ferryman, Charon uprising!

Blest if I know if survives in this demon-land anything of me,
Blest!--It's a lamp-post, by George--a reality somewhat surprising!

London, how long shall thy sons rue this Angel of Death with his
grim bow, Suffer this nightmare to last by its pestilence mangled and

Would magic Science could scare the black vista to luridest Limbo,
Would that fresh breezes were tinned and the sunshine of Italy

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *


    ["The Economic Man, whose sole motive was selfishness, was
    created by ADAM SMITH."--_Daily News_.]

  A century's gone, and still wiseacres plan
  A future for the Economic Man;
  But one fatality strikes us as comical,--
  That--up to now--he is not _economical_!
  The soulless thing whose motor sole is Self,
  Squanders, as well as snatches, sordid pelf.
  Perhaps if he could use as well as steal,
  The common wealth might prove the common weal.

       *       *       *       *       *



_To Her Most Gracious Majesty_.--The Queendom of his heart.

_To the Duke of Clarence, and the Princess May_.--A Bridal Quick

_To Prince George of Wales_.--A Clean Bill of Health.

_To Prince Christian_.--"Eyes right!"

_To Mr. Gladstone_.--Freedom _from_ the City, its fogs, and politics.

_To the Duke of Devonshire_.--A Peerage, and the right successor in

_To Mr. Chamberlain_.--His Cartoon for the week.

_To Mr. Balfour_.--An Irish "Order."

_To Lord Randolph Churchill_.--"Something new _out of_ Africa."

_To the Peerage_.--General Sir FREDERICK ROBERTS. (The greatest
"honour" of the lot, by Jove!)

_To Henry Irving_.--"A Health to the King" (HARRY THE EIGHTH), and any
number of Nights' (run).

_To Johnny Toole_.--Rapid recovery, and "another kind love" from

_To Mr. Punch's Young Men_.--Privy Councillorships (to the Public) all

_To Everybody_.--A Happy New Volume!

       *       *       *       *       *

on the part of a Cabman, when, at a dinner-party, he gives the _pas_
to an Omnibus-driver, at the same time courteously explaining this
waiver of rights by saying that "at the present moment he is not
standing on his rank."

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *


_Page Boy_ (_to Jeames_). "WHERE SHALL I PUT THISH 'ER DISH OF

_Jeames_ (_with dignity_). "I'M SURPRISED, HARTHUR, THAT AT YOUR HAGE

       *       *       *       *       *



In continuation of his interesting notes of incidents connected with
the gathering of Ministers for the last Cabinet Council, Our Special
Reporter states that the only _contretemps_ arose in connection
with the arrival of Mr. GOSCHEN. On alighting from his _coupé_ the
CHANCELLOR of the EXCHEQUER handed the driver a dirty crumpled piece
of paper.

"Hi! wot's this?" shouted the Cabman.

"A one-pound note," said the CHANCELLOR of the EXCHEQUER, blandly;
"give me the change."

"Oh, no you don't," said the Cabman; "you try that on in the City,
young feller. This is too far West."

Mr. GOSCHEN, evidently annoyed, carefully selected a worn-out
shilling, and tossing it to the man, stalked haughtily into the
Treasury. A moment later he hurriedly opened the door and looked out
for the Cabman, but he had gone. It was understood, Our Reporter says,
that the Right Hon. Gentleman had thought of a repartee.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Morning Papers announce, with tantalising brevity, that "Lord
STRATHEDEN AND CAMPBELL has (_sic_) returned to Bruton Street from
Berlin." We are in a position to add that the occasion of the noble
Lords' journey to Berlin was of international interest. It is no
secret at the Foreign Office that their Lordships have for some time
been uneasy at the turn events are taking in the East. They have
endeavoured to disguise from each other their perturbed feelings. But
STRATHEDEN felt that CAMPBELL's eye was upon him, whilst CAMPBELL at
last abandoned the futile effort of dissembling his uneasiness under
the cold steel-grey glance of STRATHEDEN. They finally agreed that the
best thing they could do was to set forth for Berlin, making secret
_détours_ in order to call at other of the principal capitals, and
confer with the Foreign Ministers. The result, we are pleased to
learn, has been most beneficial, and has, so to speak, contributed a
hodful of mortar to the foundation on which rests the peace of Europe.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. RAMSBOTHAM is disposed to regard HOMER as over-rated. The only
book of his she ever read, she says, is _Bombastical Furioso_, and
certainly that did not assuage her appetite for any more.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. STEAD has been taking into his confidence a universe thrilled
with interest, with respect to certain presentiments which from
time to time have struck his mind. One he dates in October, 1883,
at which time he was sub-editor of an evening journal which Mr.
JOHN MORLEY then edited. He had, he records, a presentiment that
at an early approaching date, Mr. MORLEY would have quitted the
establishment--dead Mr. STEAD genially anticipated--and that he would
reign in Stead. In view of the public interest involved in these
confessions, we have interviewed a certain Right Hon. Gentleman as to
his susceptibility to presentiments.

"Well," he replied, "they are not usual with me; but I remember that
for some time before the date mentioned, I felt that either Mr. STEAD
or I must leave the paper."

       *       *       *       *       *

One of the earliest volumes issued in connection with the
newly-devised Automatic Library in use on some lines of Railway, is
entitled _Beyond Escape_. We understand that subsequent volumes will
be _Dashed to Pieces_, _The Broken Bridge_, _The Sprained Axle_, _The
Wheelbox on Fire_, _The Gordon Guard_, _The Cruel Cowcatcher; or, Cut
in Twain_, _The Colour-Blind Signalman_, and _Shunted and Shattered_.

       *       *       *       *       *



    OLD STYLE.--_Nervous Witness about to leave the box, when
    his progress is arrested by Counsel on the other side._

_Counsel_ (_sharply_). Now, Sir, do you know the value of an oath?

_Witness_ (_taken aback_). Why, yes--of course.

_Coun._ (_pointing at him_). Come, no prevarication! Do you understand
the value, or do you not?

_Wit._ (_confused_). If you will allow me to explain--?

_Coun._ Come, Sir, you surely can answer Yes or No--now which is it?

_Wit._ But you will not let me explain--

_Coun._ Don't be impertinent, Sir! Explanation is unneeded. Mind, you
have been sworn, so if you _don't_ know the value of an oath, it will
be the worse for you.

_Wit._ But you won't let me speak.

_Coun._ Won't let you speak! Why, I can't get a word out of you. Now,
Sir--in plain English--are you a liar or not?

_Wit._ (_appealing to Judge_). Surely, my Lord, he has no right to
speak to me like this?

_Judge_. Be good enough to answer the Counsel's questions. I have
nothing to do with it.

_Coun._ Now, Sir--once more; are you a liar, or are you not?

_Wit._ I don't think that's the way to speak to me--

_Coun._ Don't bully me, Sir! You are here to tell us the truth, or as
much of it as you can.

_Wit._ But surely you ought to--

_Coun._ Don't tell me what I ought to do, Sir. Again; are you a liar,
or are you not?

_Wit._ Please tell me how I am to reply to such a question?

_Coun._ You are not there to ask me questions, Sir, but to answer _my_
questions to _you_.

_Wit._ Well. I decline to reply.

_Judge_ (_to Witness_). Now you had better be careful. If you do not
answer the questions put to you, it will be within my right to send
you to gaol for contempt of Court.

_Coun._ Now you hear what his Lordship says, and now, once more, are
you a liar, or are you not?

_Wit._ (_confused_). I don't know.

_Coun._ (_to Jury_). He doesn't know! I need ask nothing further!
[_Sits down._

_Foreman_ (_to Judge_). May we not ask, my Lord, how you consider this
case is being conducted?

_Judge_. With pleasure. Gentlemen! I will repeat what I remarked to
the Master quite recently. I think the only word that will describe
the matter is "noble." Distinctly noble!

    [_Scene closes in upon despair of Witness._

    NEW STYLE.--_Arrogant Witness about to leave the box, when
    his progress is arrested by Counsel on the other side._

_Coun._ I presume. Sir, that--

_Wit._ (_sharply_). You have no right to presume. Ask me what you
want, and have done with it.

_Coun._ (_amiably_). I think we shall get on better--more quickly--if
you kindly attend to my questions.

_Wit._ Think so? Well, it's a matter of opinion. But, as I have
an engagement in another place, be good enough to ask what you are
instructed to ask, and settle the matter off-hand.

_Coun._ If you will allow me to speak--

_Wit._ Speak!--I like that! Why I can't get a rational word out of

_Coun._ (_appealing to Judge_). Surely, my Lord, he has no right to
speak to me like this?

_Judge_. Be good enough to attend to the Witness. I have nothing to do
with it.

_Wit._ (_impatiently_). Now, Sir, am I to wait all day?

_Coun._ (_mildly_). I really venture to suggest that is not quite the
tone to adopt.

_Wit._ Don't bully me, Sir! I am here to answer any questions you like
to put, always supposing that you have any worth answering.

_Coun._ But come--surely you ought to--

_Wit._ I am not here to learn my duty from you, Sir. You don't know
your subject, Sir. How long have you been called?

_Coun._ I decline to reply.

_Judge_ (_to Counsel_). Now you had really better be careful. I wish
to treat the Bar with every respect, but if you waste any more time
I shall feel strongly inclined to bring your conduct before your

_Wit._ You hear what his Lordship says. What are you going to do next?

_Coun._ (_confused_). I don't know.

_Wit._ (_to Jury_). He doesn't know! I needn't stay here any longer.

    [_"Stands" down._

_Judge_ (_to Jury_). May I ask you, Gentlemen, how you consider this
case is being conducted?

_Foreman of the Jury_. With pleasure, my Lord. We were all using
the same word which exactly describes the situation. We consider the
deportment of the Witness "noble." Distinctly noble.

    [_Scene closes in upon despair of Counsel._

       *       *       *       *       *


Well, if we ain't a been and had a werry pretty dose of reel London
Fog lately, I, for one, shood like to kno when we did have one. As
for its orful effecks upon tempers, speshally female ones, Well,
it's about enuff to drive a pore Waiter, let alone a hard-workin,
middel-aged Husband, stark staring mad!


However, thank goodness, I've got one werry grand xception, and he
reglar cheers me up with his constant good humer.

I need ardly say as it's my old Amerrycan friend, who has cum back to
the Grand Hotel again, jest for to see what a reel London Winter is
like, and he bears it all, fog and all, splendidly. He was jest in
time to see Lord MARE's Sho from one of our best front winders, and
if he didn't sit there and larf away as the pore soddened and soaked
persession parsed by, speshally at the Lord MARE's six gennelmen with
their padded carves and pink silk stockins, I never seed a gennelman
larf. "Why on earth, Mr. ROBERT," he says to me, "why don't they
have it in the bewtifool Summer, for it's reelly a very splendid
performunce?" To which I replied, rather smartly, becoz I was
naterally rayther cross, "Becoz it has allers bin held on the same
honnerd day since the rain of Lord Mare ALLWINE, who rained sewen
hunderd years ago." "And has probably rained ewer since," he larfingly
replied, as he went out.

He thinks London a fine place for Theaters, and went sumware amost
ewery nite afore the Fog begun; but that rayther tried him, speshally
in the middle of the day; so he harsked me to tell him, from my long
xperience, what was the best posserbel Lunch with which to fite
agenst it. So I pulled myself together, and told him one of my good
stories:--"One of our werry best City Judges, who is passed and gone,
used to have a fat Buck sent to him wunce a year by the QUEEN, from
Windsor Forest. He didn't care werry much for Wenson hisself, so he
goes to BRING AND RYMER, wich is potical sort o' name, but it is
the Turtel Firm, and he xchanges his Fat Buck for Turtel Lunches all
through the cold, cold Winter, and they kep him helthy and strong for

"Then bring me one of his Lordship's Lunches at 2 o'clock sharp,
to-day," said he, "and I'll try it." So I took him a scrumpshus bason
of thick Turtel, and a pint Bottel of CLICKO's rich Shampane, and he
finisht the lot, and said, "Bring me xactly the same splendid lunch
ewery day the fog lastes." And I did; and he told me as how it enabeld
him to face it bravely.

Well, now for my foggy story. On that orful Toosday as ewer was, I was
a going to cross Cheapside near the Post Office, when a stout elderly
Lady arsked me to see her over, and, just as we got to the Statty, in
the middel of the road, down she fell, and dragged me down with her.
A most kind Perliceman rushed to our asistance, and saved us both. I
then, luckily, got her a Cab, and took her home to ---- Square, and,
after paying the Cabby jest what he chose to arsk, she arsked, with a
sweet smile, if I shood be offended if she gave me jest a triful for
praps saving her life, as she said. I told her, as I was only a pore
Waiter, I was used to tips and strays; so she gave me a reel gold
sovering, and a good arty squeeze of the hand, and paid the Cabby to
take me home, and finisht by saying, "If you ever want a triful, Sir,
you know where to get it." And all I has to add is, that I thinks as
my better arf mite have been jest a leetel more grayshus, as I told
her, with amost tears in my eyes, of the graitfool conduck of the Lady
of ---- Square.


       *       *       *       *       *

CHRISTMAS IN GERMANY.--"The beauties of Leadenhall and Farringdon,"
said the _D.T._, "do not figure in 'der Hallen an der Spree.'" But
in England, during Christmas time generally, we were "Hallen on der
Spree." Rather!

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE DRAMA OF TO-DAY."--A Morning Performance.

       *       *       *       *       *

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
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*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, January 9, 1892" ***

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