Home
  By Author [ A  B  C  D  E  F  G  H  I  J  K  L  M  N  O  P  Q  R  S  T  U  V  W  X  Y  Z |  Other Symbols ]
  By Title [ A  B  C  D  E  F  G  H  I  J  K  L  M  N  O  P  Q  R  S  T  U  V  W  X  Y  Z |  Other Symbols ]
  By Language
all Classics books content using ISYS

Download this book: [ ASCII | HTML | PDF ]

Look for this book on Amazon


We have new books nearly every day.
If you would like a news letter once a week or once a month
fill out this form and we will give you a summary of the books for that week or month by email.

Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, August 27, 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 103, August 27, 1892" ***

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



PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 103.



August 27, 1892.



TWO-PENN'ORTH OF THEOSOPHY.

(_A SKETCH AT THE ISLINGTON ARCADIA._)

    SCENE--_The Agricultural Hall. A large Steam-Circus is
    revolving with its organ in full blast; near it is a
    "Razzle-Dazzle" Machine, provided with a powerful mechanical
    piano. To the combined strains of these instruments, the
    merrier hearts of Islington are performing a desultory dance,
    which seems to consist chiefly in the various couples charging
    each other with desperate gallantry. At the further end of
    the Hall is a Stage, on which a Variety Performance is in
    progress, and along the side of the gallery a Switchback, the
    rolling thunder of which, accompanied by masculine whoops and
    feminine squeaks, is distinctly audible. Near the entrance
    is a painted house-front with two doors, which are being
    pitilessly battered with wooden balls; from time to time
    a well-directed missile touches a spring, one of the doors
    opens, and an idiotic effigy comes blandly goggling and
    sliding down an inclined plane, to be saluted with yells of
    laughter, and ignominiously pushed back into domestic privacy.
    Amidst surroundings thus happily suggesting the idyllic and
    pastoral associations of Arcady, is an unpretending booth,
    the placards on which announce it to be the temporary
    resting-place of the "Far-famed Adepts of Thibet," who are
    there for a much-needed change, after a "3500 years' residence
    in the Desert of Gobi." There is also a solemn warning that
    "it is impossible to spoof a Mahatma." In front of this booth,
    a fair-headed, round-faced, and Spectacled Gentleman, in
    evening clothes, and a particularly crumpled shirt-front--who
    presents a sort of compromise between the Scientific Savant
    and the German Waiter has just locked up his Assistant in
    a wooden pillory, for no obvious reason except to attract
    a crowd. The crowd collects accordingly, and includes a
    Comic Coachman, who, with his Friend--a tall and speechless
    nonentity--has evidently come out to enjoy himself_.

[Illustration: "I have here two ordinary clean clay pipes."]

_The Spectacled Gentleman_ (_letting the Assistant out of the
pillory, with the air of a man who does not often unbend to these
frivolities_). Now, Gentlemen, I am sure all those whom I see around
me have heard of those marvellous beings--the Mahatmas--and how they
can travel through space in astral bodies, and produce matter out of
nothing at all. (_Here the group endeavour to look as if these facts
were familiar to them from infancy, while the_ Comic Coachman _assumes
the intelligent interest of a Pantomime Clown in the price of a
property fish_.) Very well; but perhaps some of you may not be aware
that at this very moment the air all around you is full of ghosts.

_The Comic Coachman_ (_affecting extreme terror_). 'Ere, let me get
_out_ o' this! Where's my friend?

_The Sp. G._ I am only telling you the simple truth. There is,
floating above the head of each one of you, the ghostly counterpart of
himself; and the ghost of anybody who is smoking will be smoking also
the ghost of a cigar or a pipe.

_The C.C._ (_to his attendant Phantom_). 'Ere, 'and me down one o'
your smokes to try, will yer?

_The Sp. G._ You laugh--but I am no believer in making statements
without proof to support them, and I shall now proceed to offer you
convincing evidence that what I say is true. (_Movement of startled
incredulity in group._) I have here two ordinary clean clay pipes.
(_Producing them_.) Now, Sir, (_to the_ C.C.) will you oblige me by
putting your finger in the bowls to test whether there is any tobacco
there or not?

_The C.C._ Not _me_. None o' those games for me! Where's my
friend?--it's more in _'is_ line!

    [_The Friend, however, remains modestly in the background,
    and, after a little hesitation, a more courageous spirit tests
    the bowls, and pronounces them empty._

_The Sp. G._ Very well, I will now smoke the spirit-tobacco in these
empty pipes. (_He puts them both in his mouth, and emits a quantity
of unmistakable smoke_.) Now, in case you should imagine this is a
deception, and I produce the smoke from my throat in some manner, will
you kindly try my esoteric tobacco, Sir? (_To a bystander, who, not
without obvious misgivings, takes a few whiffs and produces smoke,
as well as a marked impression upon the most sceptical spectators._)
Having thus proved to you the existence of a Spirit World, allow
me to inform you that this is nothing to the marvels to be seen
inside for the small sum of twopence, where I shall have the honour
of introducing to you Mlle. SCINTILLA, who is not only the most
extraordinary Scientific Wonder of the World, but also the loveliest
woman now living!

_The C.C._ 'Ere, _I'm_ comin' in, I am. I'm on to this. Where's my
friend? he'll pay for _me_. He promised to take care o' me, and I
can't trust myself anywhere without 'im.

    [_He enters the Show, followed by the Tall Nonentity, and the
    bulk of the bystanders, who feel that the veil is about to
    be lifted, and that twopence is not an exorbitant fee for
    initiation. Inside is a low Stage, with a roughly painted
    Scene, and a kind of small Cabinet, the interior of which is
    visible and vacant; behind the barrier which, separates the
    Stage from the Audience stands Mlle. SCINTILLA, a young
    lady in a crimson silk blouse and a dark skirt, who if
    not precisely a Modern Helen, is distinctly attractive and
    reassuringly material._

_The C.C._ Oh, I say, if this is a Mahatma, I _like_ 'em!

    [_The Sibyl receives this tribute with a smile._

_The Sp. G._ (_appearing on the Stage as Showman_). Now, Ladies and
Gentlemen! (_There is one Lady present, who stands at the side, by
way of indicating that she declines to give the proceedings any
moral support whatever._) You all know that Adepts have the power
of disintegrating material objects and re-integrating them when
they please. I have here a hollow mask. (_He exhibits a Pantomime
demon head._) I place it upon the roof of this cabinet, which as
you perceive is empty. I raise it--and underneath you will see
materialised a wonderful young lady who consists of a head and nothing
else. (_He discovers the head of a very human young person with short
curly hair._) Now those of you who are unmarried would find this young
lady an admirable wife for a man of small income, for, having no body,
she will cost him nothing whatever for her food or frocks.

_The C.C._ (_with a touch of cynicism_). She'd make it up in 'ats and
bonnets, though; trust _'er_!

_The Showman_. She is extremely sweet-tempered; and, when she observes
a number of good-looking gentlemen in the front row, as there are
to-night, she will smile affectionately at them.

    [_The Head gives a very practical confirmation of this
    assertion, and the Lady in the corner sniffs with strong
    disapproval._

_The C.C._ 'Ere, I say--where's my friend? I want to take my 'ook out
o' this--the young Lady's 'ed is a smilin' at me, and it ain't _good_
enough, yer know--she's left too much of herself at 'ome to suit _me_!

_The Showman_ (_after extinguishing the Head, which is giggling
helplessly, in the Mask_). Now this other, young Lady, Mlle.
SCINTILLA, known to her friends as "SPARKS," is equally wonderful in
her way. It may surprise you when I inform you--(_here he puts his arm
affectionately round the Sibyl's neck_)--that, beautiful as she is,
she has never been kissed in her whole life!

_The C.C._ (_with chivalrous indignation_). What? Ere, if _that's_
all!--

    [_He intimates, in pantomime, his perfect readiness to repair
    this omission at once._

_The Showman_. This is owing to the fact that she is impregnated with
electricity to such an extraordinary degree, that any contact with her
lips will produce a shock which would probably prove fatal!

_The C.C._ Oh, where _is_ that friend o' mine? (_To the Sibyl_.) I
come out without my lightnin' conductor this evenin', Miss; but I've
got a friend somewhere in 'ere as 'll be 'appy to represent me.

    [_The Tall Nonentity tries to efface himself, but is relieved
    to find that the Sibyl does not take the offer seriously._

_The Showman_. As a proof that I am not speaking without foundation,
this young lady will allow you to feel her hands, when you will at
once become aware of the electric current. [_The Sibyl leans across
the barrier, and tenders a decidedly pretty palm for public pressure,
but there is the usual reluctance at first to embrace the opportunity.
At length a seeker after truth grasps the hand, and reports that
he "can feel a somethink," whereupon his example is followed by the
others, including the_ C.C., _who, finding the sensation agreeable,
pretends to be electrified to such an extent that he is unable to let
go--which concludes the entertainment._

_Spectators_ (_departing_). She _may_ have 'ad one o' them galvanic
belts on for all _you_ can tell. But, mind yer, there's a lot _in_ it,
all the same. Look at the way he brought smoke out o' them clays!

_The C.C._ (_to his Friend_.) That _was_ a lark, JIM! But look
'ere--don't you go tellin' the Missus; _she_ ain't on the Me'atmer
lay--not _much_, she ain't!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HONOURS EASY.

_Sir E.L._ (_gaily_). "BARONETTED? OF COURSE, MY BOY--RIGHT THING TO
DO! THANKS. TA-TA!" [_Careers away, to keep up his circulation._

_Mr. P._ "AND _YOU_, MR. LABBY?"

_H.L._ (_languidly_). "OH--AH--AS FOR _ME_--I'M OUT OF IT--THAT'S THE
TRUTH."]

       *       *       *       *       *

WOT CHER, LABBY?

    ["Mr. LABOUCHERE, so he says, has come to London to enjoy the
    smiles of the new Ministry."--_Morning Paper_.]

  Enjoy them, dear LABBY, smile back, if you can--
    Though your lip has a curl that portends something sinister--
  It is painful, I take it, to flash in the pan,
    While a rival goes off with a bang as a Minister.

  But you (you're a cynic, that's one of the ways,
    And by no means the worst, to get credit for kindness),
  You can smile at this struggle for titles and praise,
    You can laugh at your friends while you envy their blindness.

  A time, so I fancy you saying, will come;
    They are not done with LABBY, for all their sweet smiling;
  And they're vastly mistaken who think he'll be dumb,
    Or abandon his amiable habit of riling.

       *       *       *       *       *

"GREAT SCOTT!"--_Mr. Punch's_ congratulations to the new Bart. of
Scott's Bank, Cavendish Square, with the classic name of HORACE. His
friends will be able to adapt MACAULAY's lines, and tell--

  "How well HORATIUS kept the Bank,
  In the brave days of old."

Of course, be it understood that "keeping the Bank" has nothing
whatever to do with Monte Carlo, or with any game of speculation. _Ad
multos annos!_ And to adapt again--

  "On HORACE's head Honours accumulate!"

       *       *       *       *       *

BALFOUR AND SALISBURY.--The late Government couldn't help having a
good dash of spirit in it, seeing it was a "B. and S." mixture. Now,
"B. and S."--off! _Vide_ _Mr. Punch's_ Cartoon this week.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: NEVER SATISFIED.

_Grumpy Husband._ "HOW BADLY INFORMED NEWSPAPERS ARE! WHY, HERE THEY
SAY, 'SIR THOMAS GRIMSBY ENTERTAINED US AND A NUMBER OF OTHERS AT
DINNER LAST NIGHT!' ENTERTAINED! WHY, I NEVER WAS SO BORED IN MY
LIFE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

IN OFFICE WITH THE LABOUR VOTE.

(_HOW TO DEAL WITH AN AWKWARD MATTER, ACCORDING TO PRECEDENT._)

    SCENE--_A Smoking-Room and Lounge. Eminent Statesman
    discovered filling a pipe. Private Secretary in
    attendance._

_Em. S._ Now I think all's ready to begin. Mind, my lad, and have the
tea and decanters in readiness when I ring for them. Enough chairs?

_Pri. Sec._ Only half-a-dozen expected, Sir; so I thought if I got six
that would be enough.

_Em. S._ Quite so. And now, my dear fellow, show in the Deputation.

    [_Private Secretary opens door, when enter several Workmen in
    their Sunday best, headed by Fussy M.P._

_Fussy M.P._ (_with effusion_). My dear Sir, this is a great pleasure.
I hope I see you well. (_Shakes the hand of Eminent Statesman with
profuse cordiality._) And now, if you will allow me, I will introduce
these Delegates. It would have pleased them better if they could have
had an Autumn Session, but they are quite prepared to be satisfied
with an interview, as it is in the Recess. (_Speaking in the soft
tones of the House at Westminster._) Sir! My Right Hon. Friend! It
is my privilege as well as my duty--a most pleasant one--to introduce
what I may aptly declare to be the most representative body of men it
has ever been my good fortune to meet. I, my dear Sir--

_Em. S._ (_interrupting_). Thank you very much, but I fancy we can get
on better by talking it over quietly. It's very hot, so if you don't
mind, I will take off my coat and sit in my shirt-sleeves.

[Illustration]

    [_Removes his coat._

_Fussy. M.P._ (_taken aback_). My dear Sir!

_Members of the Deputation_. Thankee, Sir! We'll follow suit.

    [_They remove their coats._

_Em. S._ Now you would like to smoke? Well, my Private Secretary will
hand round cigars, cigarettes, and tobacco. Don't be shy, Consider my
house Liberty Hall. Well, tell me--what's it all about?

_First Mem. of Dep._ (_pointing to Fussy M.P._) Why he said as how he
would do all the speaking.

_Em. S._ Very likely, and do it (_bowing to him_) very well. But I
would far rather that you should speak for yourselves. Come let us
meet as old friends. Now--what do you want?

_Second Mem. of Dep._ Why, Sir, if you put it in that pleasant way, I
may say, payment for hours of labour put in by some one else.

_Em. S._ Yes, very good. Capital notion. But how are you to manage it?

_Third Mem. of Dep._ (_roughly_). That's your business, and not ours.
We tell you what we want, and you have to carry out our wishes.

_Em. S._ (_smiling_). You mean the wishes of your class--your order?

_Second Mem._ Well, that's about it. We _do_ represent them. Why we
are sent to you by over 100,000!

_Em. S._ And what is the full complement of your combined trades?

_Second Mem._ About nine millions, but that has nothing to do with it.

_Em. S._ With it! Do with what?

_First Mem. of Dep._ Why, what we require, Right Hon. Sir--what we
require!

_Em. S._ (_amiably_). And that is--?

_First Mem. of Dep._ (_triumphantly_). Oh, you must tell us that! It
is not our place, but yours--see?

_Em. S._ Not exactly. But will you not join me? (_Offers cigarettes._)
And now let us get at the heart of the question. Who is to do your
work for you?

_First Mem. of Dep._ (_puffing at the tobacco_). Don't you think that
could be done by the Government?

_Em. S._ _I_ don't know. I am delighted to see you, because it is with
your assistance that I propose mastering the details of the matter.
But you really must help me.

_Second Mem. of Dep._ (_taken aback_). But, I say, Sir, is this quite
fair? We are accustomed to put up someone such as he (_pointing to
the_ Fussy M.P.), and leave it to him to do all the talking.

_Em. S._ Yes, I know the old-fashioned plan; but I prefer the new.
Pray go on. How will you get your work done gratuitously?

_Fourth Mem._ Oh, come! That's putting it a little too strong! We are
not accustomed to it. What does it all mean?

_Em. S._ I think I can answer you. My good friends, until you can get
an idea of what you really want, you can do nothing--nor can I. So
now, if you have another appointment to keep, please don't let me
detain you. All I can wish you I do wish you. May you all prosper in
your undertakings. And now, farewell!

_First Mem._ Well, Sir, if you won't see us any more, good-bye!

_Em. S._ Good-bye! Mind the steps! Good-bye! [_The Deputation leave._
Eminent Statesman _turns his attention to other matters with a smile
of satisfaction._

       *       *       *       *       *

"EXCELSIOR! OR STRAIGHT UP!"--Sir DOUGLAS STRAIGHT was knighted last
week. N.B.--Would have been mentioned earlier, if we had had the
straight tip.

       *       *       *       *       *

'ARRY IN VENICE.

[Illustration]

  DEAR CHARLIE,--'Ow 'ops it, my 'earty? Yours truly's still stived
          up in Town.
  Won't run to a 'oliday yet, mate. I'm longing to lay on the brown
  By a blow from the briny, but, bless yer, things now is as bad as
          they're made.
  Hinfluenzas, Helections, and cetrer, has bloomin' nigh bunnicked
          up Trade.

  _My_ screw's bin cut down by a dollar; along of 'ard times, sez
          our bloke.
  I _did_ mean doin' It'ly this year; but sez Luck, "Oh, go 'ome and
          eat coke!"
  Leastways, that's as I hunderstand 'er. A narsty one, Luck, and no
          kid;
  Always gives yer the rough of 'er tongue when  you're quisby, or
          short of a quid.

  When I 'eard about Venice in London, I thinks to myself, mate,
          thinks I,
  'Ere's a 'oliday tour on the cheap! 'Ere's a barney as 'ARRY must
          try.
  No Continong this year, that's certain, old man, for the likes of
          poor me;
  But whilst I've a bob I've a chance for a boss at the Bride o' the
          Sea.

  Them posters of IMRE KIRALFY's for gorgeousness quite takes the
          cake.
  Friend IMRE's a spanker, you bet, and quite fly to the popular fake.
  "Stupendious work," IMRE calls it, and I.K. is O.K. no doubt.
  Your old Country Fair Show takes a back seat when ikey young
          I.K.'s about.

  Oh, the jam and the mustard, my pippin, the crimsing, the blue,
          and the gold!
  Scissorree, CHARLIE, rainbows ain't in it, and prisums is out in
          the cold.
  I do like a picteresk poster, as big as a bloomin' back yard,
  With the colour slopped on quite regardless; if that ain't 'Igh
          'Art, wy it's 'ard.

  'Owsomever I mustn't feeloserphise. Off to Olympia I 'ooks,
  To see Venice the Bride of the Sea, as set forth in them sixpenny
          books.
  Bless his twirly merstache, he's a twicer, this IMRE KIRALFY, dear
          boy,
  And he give me a two hours' _spektarkle_ old LEIGHTON hisself
          might enjoy.

  Bit puzzling the "Pageant" is, CHARLIE, until that Synopsis you've
          read;
  Wish I'd mugged it all up overnight; but I carn't get it straight
          in my 'ead.
  Sort o' mixture of _Shylock_ and BYRON, with bits of _Othello_
          chucked in,
  Muddled up with "Chioggian wars," as seemed mostly blue fire and
          bright tin.

  But the scenes wos 'splendiferous, CHARLIE. About arf a mile o'
          stage front,
  With some thousands of 'eroes and supers, as seemed all the time
          on the 'unt.
  Lor! 'ow they did scoot up and down that there stage at the
          double, old man,
  All their legs on the waggle, like flies, and their armour a-chink
          as they ran!

  Old _Shylock_ turns up quite permiskus, and always upon the full
          trot;
  He seemed mixed up with Portias, and Doges, smart gals, and the
          dickens knows wot.
  All kep waving their arms like mad semy-phores, doin' the akrybat
          prank,
  As if they was swimming in nothink, or 'ailing a 'bus for the Bank.

  I sez to a party beside me, "Old man, wot the doose does it _mean_?"
  Sez he, "A dry attic, yer know, of wich Venice, yer see, wos the
          Queen.
  That cove in a nightcap's the Doge; for an old 'un he _can_ move
          about.
  They had G.O.M.'s, mate, in Venice; of that there is not the least
          doubt.

  "That's VETTORE PISANI, the Hadmiral; t'other is General ZENO
  Defending the State, I persoom, and they're 'aving a fust-class
          old beano.
  Wy PEDRO THE SECOND, of Cyprus, and _Portia_ is made a rum blend
  With Turps Siccory's Revels, and so on, no doubt we shall twig at
          the hend."

  I sez, "Thankee! that's werry instructive. You _do_ know a lot,
          mate, _you_ do!"
  Then the fight at Chioggia came on. Sech a rum pully-haully all
          through.
  But the Victory Percession wos proper, and so was the All Frisky
          _feet_,
  And the way as they worked the gondolers, them streaky-legged
          chaps, wos a treat.

  But the best o' the barney came arter. I took a gondoler, old man,
  Sort o' wobbly black coffin afloat, and perpelled on the rummiest
          plan
  With one oar and a kind of notched post. But a dressy young party
          in pink
  'Ad a seat in my ship, and seemed skeery. _I_ cheered 'er up--wot
          do _you_ think?

  "No danger," sez I, "not a mossel! Now is there, old lollipop-legs?
  Sit 'ere, Miss, and trim the old barky! Go gently now, young
          'Am-and-Eggs!
  'Ow much for yer mustard-striped kicksies? Way-oh! Wy, you nearly
          run down
  The Ryhalto that time, you young josser. Look hout, Miss, he'll
          crack your sweet crown!"

  _Larf_, CHARLIE? She did a fair chortle. I _'ave_ sech a way with
          the shes.
  We 'ad six sixpennorths together--I tell you 'twos go-as-you-please!
  Modern Venice, took out of a toy-box, with palaces fourteen foot
          'igh.
  And Bridges o' Sighs cut in pasteboard, is larks all the same, and
          no fly.

  Sort o' cosy romanticky feeling a-paddling along them canals,
  With the manderlines twangling all round, and the larf of the
          gayest of gals
  Gurgling up through the Hightalian hair--though it do 'ave a
          cockneyfied sniff,--
  Wy it's better than spooning at Marlow with MOLLY MOLLOY in a skiff.

  I felt like Lord BYRON, I tell yer; I stretched myself, orty-like,
          hout,
  And wished it could go on all night, wich my pardner did ditto, no
          doubt.
  Modern Venice in minichure, CHARLIE, ain't really so dusty, you bet;
  I wos quite a Bassanio in breeks, and I ain't lost the twang of it
          yet.

  _My_ Portia wos POLLY MARIA; she tipped me her name fair and free;
  And a pootier young mossel o' muslin, I never 'ad perch on _my_
          knee.
  No side on 'er, nothink lowlived, CHARLIE, ladylike down to the
          ground,
  I called 'er my fair "Bride of Venice." In fact, we wos 'appy all
          round.

  She said _I_ wos _'er_ form to a hounce, and if anyone looked more
          O.K.,
  In a nobby Gondoler than me, well that chap 'adn't travelled _'er_
          way;
  Wich wos Barnsbury Park--so she whispered, with _sech_ a sly
          giggle, dear boy!
  I sez "Bully for IMRE KIRALFY! His Show is a thing to henjoy!"

  And so it is, CHARLIE, old hoyster. The music is twangly, I own,
  And if I've a fancy myself, 'taint hexactly the Great Xylophone;
  But the speeches of musical scratch-backs the dancers keep time
          with so pat,
  In that fairy-like Carnival Bally, fetched POLLY, ah, all round
          'er 'at!

  That 'at wos a spanker, I tell yer; as big as the Doge's
          State-Barge,
  And like all the "Four Seasons" in one! "Well," sez POLLY, "I _do_
          like 'em large,
  Them Venetian pork-pies ain't _my_ fancy, no room for no trimmings
          above.
  They wouldn't suit Barnsbury Park, though they might do 'The
          Castle of Love'!"

  Sort o' needled her somehow, I fancy; but, bless yer, I soon put
          _that_ straight.
  Gals is wonderful touchy on togs! Covent Garden piled high on a
          plate
  With a blue hostrich-feather all round it, mayn't be man's hidea
          of a tile,
  But I flattered her taste a rare bat, and soon 'ad her again on
          the smile.

  Well, "Venice the Bride of the Sea," is wuth more than one visit,
          old pal,
  And I've got a hengagement next week to go there with the same
          pooty gal.
  I'm going to read up the subjeck, I'll cram for it all I can carry,
  For I'm bound to be fair, in the know if young POLLY should question

Yours, 'ARRY.

       *       *       *       *       *

INNS AND OUTS.

NO. I.--"MISTER."

In a "Grand Hôtel" again; abroad; never mind which or where; have
experienced many Inns and many outings, but find all Grand Hôtels much
the same. "Lawn-tennis, English Church in the Spa_t_ious Grounds, good
station for friends of the _Fisch-Sport_."--But the quintessence of
Grand-Hotelism is "Mr." in his Bureau.

The main thing about "Mr." is his frock-coat ("made in Germany"). It
is always buttoned; he is never without it; I believe he sleeps in
it. Divest him of this magician's robe (so to speak) and he would be
powerless.

The Hôtel omnibus clatters in; "Mr." confronts us, smiling and serene,
with his two Secretaries of Legation. He discriminates the Inn-comers
at a glance.--"Numero 10, 11, 12, _entresol_;" for Noah-like
Paterfamilias with Caravan; "Numero 656, for se Leddy's med;" "Numero
80, for me, the _soi-disant Habitué_;" it's the room I'm _supposed_ to
have always had, so I pretend to like it. One Unremunerative-looking
Pedestrian, in knickerbockers, is assured that, if he waits half a
day or so, he may get an attic--"Back of se house; fine view of se
sluice-gate and cemetery."--U.-L.P. expostulates; he has telegraphed
for a good room; it's _too_ bad.--"Ver' sawy, but is quite complete
now, se Hôtel." U.-L.P., furious; "Hang it," &c. "Mr." deprecates this
ingratitude--"Ver' sawy, Sor; but if you don't like," (with decision),
"se whole wide wurrld is open to you!" Pedestrian retires, threatening
to write to the _Times_. Preposterous! as if the Editor would print
anything against "Mr."! "Mr.'s" attitude majestic and martyred;
CASABIANCA in a frock-coat! Bless you! he knows us all, better than
we know ourselves. He sees the Cook's ticket through the U.-L.P.'s
Norfolk-jacket.

[Illustration: "He sees the Cook's ticket through the U.-L.P.'s
Norfolk-jacket."]

When "Mr." is not writing, he is changing money. The sheepish Briton
stands dumb before this financier, and is shorn--of the exchange,
with an oafish fascination at "Mr.'s" dexterous manipulation of the
_rouleaux_ of gold and notes. Nobody dares haggle with "Mr." When he
is not changing money, he is, as I have said, writing, perhaps his
Reminiscences. It is "Mr." "What gif you se informations;" and _what_
questions! The seasoned Pensionnaire wants to know how she can get
to that _lovely_ valley where the Tiger-lilies grow, without taking a
carriage. The British Matron, where she can buy rusks, "real English
rusks, you know." A cantankerous tripper asks "why he never has
bread-sauce with the nightly chicken." And we all troop to "Mr." after
breakfast, to beg him to affix postage-stamps to our letters, and to
demand the precise time when "they will reach England;" as if they
wouldn't reach at all without "Mr.'s" authority. It gives the nervous
a sense of security to watch "Mr." stamping envelopes. It is a way of
beginning the day in a Grand Hôtel.

"Mr." gives you the idea of not wishing to make a profit; but he gives
you nothing else. You wish to be "_en pension_"--"Ver' well, Sor, it
is seventeen francs (or marks) the day;" but you soon discover that
your room is extra, and that you may not dine "apart;" in a word, you
are "Mr.'s" bondsman. Then there is the persuasive lady, who perhaps,
_may_ be stopping a week or more, but her plans are undecided--at any
rate six days--"Will 'Mr.' make a reduction?" "Mr." however, continues
his manuscript, oh ever so long! and smiles; his smile is worse than
his bite! I, the _Habitué_, approach "Mr." with a furtive clandestine
air, and observe cheerily, "I hope to remain here a month."
"Certainly, Sor; is better you do; will be se same as last year; I
gif you se same appartement, you see."--This with an air of favour.
I thank him profusely--for nothing. My bill turns out to be higher
than if I had been overcharged separately for everything. "Mr." is
the Master of the Arts of extras. He does not wish to make a profit;
oh no! but--ahem--he makes it. As for the outsiders who straggle in
casually for luncheon and want to be sharp with "Mr." afterwards,
they are soon settled. One who won't be done, complains of a prince's
ransom for a potato-salad.--"If you haf pertatas, you pay for
pertatas."--TALLEYRAND could not have been more unanswerable.

"Mr." is immense at entertainments; it is "Mr." who organises "Se
Spanish Consairt," "Se Duetto of se Poor Blinds," and, of course, "Se
Bal"; he is very proud of his latest acquisition--the Orchestrion that
plays the dinner down. To see "Mr." dispatch itinerant minstrels would
do our County Council good.

"Mr." knows our compatriots _au fond_; he makes no extra charge for
toast at breakfast, and you only pay half-a-crown for a pot of George
the Third Marmalade, to lubricate it withal. Five-o'clock tea comes
up at six, just as at home. He makes much of Actors, Peers, and
Clergymen. Sunday is a great day for "Mr." He directs everyone to the
English Church in "The Grounds"--(fifteen benches and one tree, with a
fountain between them); and then goes off to play cards, but always
in his frock-coat. The "Chaplain" gets his breakfast-egg gratis; and
a stray Bishop writes, "Nothing can exceed the comfort of this Hôtel,"
in that Doomsday Book of Visitors.

When you depart--and, abroad, this is generally about daybreak--"Mr."
is always on the spot, haughty, as becomes a man about to be paid, but
considerate; there is a bouquet in petticoats for the Entresol--even,
for me, a condescending word. "_When you see_ Mr. SHONES _in London,
you tell him next year I make se Gulf-Links._" I don't know who
the dickens JONES may be, but I snigger. It all springs from that
miserable fiction of being an _Habitué_. "_Sans adieux!_" ejaculates
"Mr.," who is great at languages; so am I, but, somehow, find myself
saying "Good-bye" quite naturally. _À propos_ of languages, "Mr."
is very patient with the Ladies who _will_ speak to him in so-called
French or German, when they say, "_Où est le Portier?_" or "_Es
ist sehr schön heute_," he replies, in the genuine tongue. I once
overheard a lady discussing the chances of rest and quiet in the
"Grand Hôtel." "_Oui c'est une grande reste_." said she. It only
puzzled "Mr." for a moment. "_Parfaitement, Madame; c'est ravissant,
n'est-ce pas?_" and then "Mr." sold her the little Hand-book, composed
by the Clergyman, on which he receives a commission.

       *       *       *       *       *

NEED I SAY MORE?

  I loved--and need I say she was a woman?
    And need I say I thought her just divine?
  Her beauty (like this rhyme) was quite uncommon.
    Alas, she said she never could be mine!

  My Uncle was a Baronet, and wealthy,
    But old, ill-tempered, deaf, and plagued with gout;
  I was his heir, a pauper young and healthy;
    My Uncle--need I say?--had cut me out.

  I swore--and need I say the words I muttered?
    Sir HECTOR married KATE, and changed his will.
  Dry bread for me! For her the tea-cake buttered.
    I starved--and, need I say, I'm starving still!

       *       *       *       *       *

"A CARPET KNIGHT"--Sir BLUNDELL MAPLE. Likewise that Sir B.M. is
"a Knight of the Round Table." [N.B. Great rush to let off these.
Contribution-Box joke-full of 'em. Impossible, therefore, to decide
"who spoke first." Reward of Merit still in hand.]

       *       *       *       *       *

SUGGESTION.--The Music-and-Hartland Committee will permit the
performance of brief "Sketches" in the Music Halls. Wouldn't
"Harmonies" by our own WHISTLER be more appropriate?

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: AN EARNEST POLITICIAN.

"I'M VERY GLAD SIR PERCY PLANTAGENET WAS RETURNED, MISS!"

"WHY,--ARE YOU A PRIMROSE DAME?"

"NO, MISS,--BUT MY 'USBAND IS!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

TIP TO TAX-COLLECTORS.

(_AFTER HERRICK'S "COUNSEL TO GIRLS."_)

A SONG OF THE EXCHEQUER.

Air--"_Gather ye rose-buds while ye may._"

  Gather ye Taxes while ye may,
    The time is fleetly flying;
  And tenants who'd stump up to-day,
    To-morrow may be shying.

  That annual "Lump," the Income Tax,
    Still higher aye seems getting;
  The sooner that for it you "ax,"
    The nearer you'll be netting.

  That payer's best who payeth first
    The Exchequer's pert purse-stormer:
  As the year wags still worse and worst
    Times, still succeed the former.

  Then be not lax, but keep your time,
    And dun, and press, and harry;
  Tax-payers shirk, nor deem it crime,
    If long Collectors tarry.

       *       *       *       *       *

"WHERE SHALL WE GO?" is of course an important subject in the
holiday-time, and one to which _Sala's Journal_ devotes a column or
two weekly; but a still more important one is "_How shall we go it?_"
and having totted up the items there comes the final question, "_Where
shall we stay?_" And the wise, but seldom-given answer is--"_At
Home_." In any case, the traveller's motto should always be, "Wherever
you go, make yourself quite at Home"--and stay there, may be added by
the London Club Cynic, who wants everything all to himself.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LOST JOKE.

(_A SONG OF A SAD BUT COMMON EXPERIENCE._)

Air:--"_The Lost Chord._"

[Illustration]

  Seated one day in my study
    I was listless and ill at ease,
  And my fingers twiddled idly
    With the novel upon my knees.
  I know not where I was straying
    On the poppy-clustered shore,
  But I suddenly struck on a Sparkler
    Which fairly made me roar.

  I have joked _some_ jokes in my time, Sir,
    But this was a Champion Joke,
  And it fairly cut all record
    As a humoristic stroke.
  It was good for a dozen of dinners,
    It was fit to crown my fame
  As a shaper of sheer Side-splitters,
    For which I have such a name.

  It flooded my spirit's twilight
    Like the dawn on a dim dark lake,
  For I knew that against all rivals
    It would fairly "take the cake."
  I said I will try it to-morrow,--
    I won't even tell my wife,--
  It will certainly fetch Lord FUMFUDGE,
    And then--I am made for life!

  It links two most distant meanings
    Into one perfect chime--
         *       *       *       *       *
  Here my servant broke the silence,
    And said it was dinner-time!
         *       *       *       *       *
  I have sought, but I seek it vainly,
    That great Lost Joke of mine,
  Which had slipped from my mind entirely
    When I sat me down to dine.

  It may be that something some day
    May bring it me back again;
  But I only wish--confound it!--
    I had fixed it with pencil or pen.
  It may be that luck--bright Angel!--
    May inspire me once more with that stroke,
  But I fear me 'tis only in Limbo
    I shall light on my great Lost Joke!

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. R., who has been busy with her juniors, tells us that she has
been horrified to learn from her Nephew, who has been fighting the
Slave-hunters on the Congo, that in that country they "preserve" the
bodies of their enemies. He writes to her--"I have 'potted' several
Arabs."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "AU REVOIR!"

SCENE--_NO. 10, DOWNING STREET. EXTERIOR._

S-L-SB-RY AND B-LF-R. "TA! TA! TAKE CARE OF THE HOUSE, OLD MAN! BACK
AGAIN SOON!"

[_Exeunt_ "B. _and_ S."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: FROM THE PARTICULAR TO THE GENERAL.

"I SAY, OLD CHAPPIE--WHAT TREMENDOUS HIGH CHAIRS YOU'VE GOT--ONE'S
FEET POSITIVELY DANGLE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SONG OF THE BAR.

  Work, work, work!
    Sang HOOD, in the "_Song of the Shirt_,"
  Of the seamstress slave who worked to her grave
    In poverty, hunger, and dirt.
  Work, work, work!
    The Bar-maid, too, can say,
  Work for ten hours, or more;
    Oh, for "eight hours" a day!

  Is she a happier slave
    Where gilding and mirrors abound?
  Of what can she think when eternal drink
    Is the cry of all around?
  Stand, stand, stand!
    Serving sots from far and near;
  Stand, stand, stand!
    More whiskey! More brandy! More beer!

  Possibly some one may say,
    "What can that matter to us?
  She is frail, frivolous, gay;
    She is not worth a fuss."
  Prig, all her life is a snare,
    You, so excessively good,
  Would pity her rather if there
    Once for ten hours you stood.

  How would you feel at the end?
    You may not think she is fit,
  Quite, for your sister's friend--
    Is she too wicked to sit?
  Stand stand, stand!
    In the smoke of pipe and cigar,
  Always to think of eternal drink;
    Oh, pity the Slave of the Bar!

       *       *       *       *       *

BY A RIBBON GIRL WHO HAS BEEN TO FRANCE.--"Sure the town itself must
be full of go-a-head young women that a decent female wouldn't be seen
spaking to--else why is it called _Belle-Fast_?"

       *       *       *       *       *

THE OPERA IN THE FUTURE.

(_AS SUGGESTED BY "MUSICAL PAUPERS."_)

    SCENE--_Interior of Covent Garden on a Subscription Night.
    The house is filled in the parts reserved for Subscribers. The
    remainder of the Auditorium is less crowded. The Overture is
    over, when there is a loud cry for the Manager. Enter before
    the Curtain Courteous Gentleman, who bows, and waits in an
    attitude of respectful attention._

_Person in the Amphitheatre._ I say, Mister, look 'ere, after charging
me sixpence for a seat, I'm 'anged if they don't want an extra penny
for a bill of the play.

_Courteous Gentleman._ Highly improper, Sir. I will look into the
matter to-morrow, and if you are kind enough to identify the attendant
who has attempted this overcharge, I will have him dismissed. And now,
with your permission, your Royal Highnesses, my Lords, Ladies, and
Gentlemen, we will go on with the Musical performances.

    [_The Opera continues. At the end of the Third Act there
    is another cry for the Manager. The Courteous Gentleman
    re-enters before the Curtain, as before._

_Very Stout Person in the Amphitheatre Stalls._ I say, look here--I
paid two shillings for this seat, and the back's coming off.

_Cour. Gen._ Perhaps, Sir, you have been leaning with a weight it is
unable to bear.

_Very S.P._ Never mind about that. As I pay two shillings for my seat,
I expect you to stop the show until it's mended.

_Cour. Gen._ As the show (as you call it, Sir) costs about two pounds
a minute, I fear that would be rather an extravagant proceeding. If I
may suggest, I would counsel you to change your seat to a more perfect
one.

_Very S.P._ I like that! and get turned out by someone who had
reserved it. No, thankee! But there, after all, I _am_ rather heavy,
so let's say no more about it.

_Cour. Gen._ I am infinitely obliged to you.

    [_Exit. The Opera continues until the commencement of the
    last Act, when there is a frantic cry for the Manager. The
    Courteous Gentleman again appears before the Curtain._

_Voices from the Cheaper Parts of the House._ Here, cut it short!
Let's get to the end. Let's see how the story finishes!

_Cour. Gent._ I am at your disposal.

_Spokesman._ Well, look here, Mister. There's a lot of us here who
want to catch the 11.40 train, so can't you cut the performance?

_Cour. Man._ Although your proposal, Sir, may cause some trouble and
complications, I will honestly do my best. [_Bows and exit._

_Curtain._

       *       *       *       *       *

TO THE ROLLER-SKATING FIEND.

[Illustration]

  O Boy!--O injudicious boy!--
    Who, swayed by dark and secret reasons,
  Dost love thine elders to annoy
    At sundry times and frequent seasons,
  Why hast thou left thy tempting top--
    Thy penny-dreadful's gory garble--
  Thy blue-and-crimson lollipop--
    Thy aimlessly meandering marble?

  Thy catapult, so sure of aim,
    In cold neglect, alas! reposes,
  And even "tip-cat's" cherished game
    No longer threatens eyes and noses;
  Thy tube of tin (projecting peas)
    At length has ceased from irritating;
  But how much worse than all of these
    Thy latest craze--for roller-skating!

  For, mounted on twin engines dread,
    Thou rushest (with adventures graphic)
  Where even angels fear to tread,
    Because there's such a lot of traffic.
  At lightning-speed we see thee glide,
    (With malice every narrow _shave_ meant),
  And charge thine elders far and wide,
    Or stretch them prone upon the pavement.

  Round corners sharp thou lov'st to dart,
    (Thou skating imp! Thou rolling joker!)
  And hit in some projecting part
    The lawyer staid, or solemn broker.
  Does pity never mar thy glee,
    When upright men with torture double?
  Oh, let our one petition be
    That thou may'st come to grievous trouble!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A FATAL OBJECTION.

"MOTHER, ARE THE WONDERGILTS VERY RICH?"

"YES, SILVIA, VERY."

"MOTHER, I HOPE WE SHALL NEVER BE RICH?"

"WHY, DARLING?"

"IT MUST BE SO VERY EXPENSIVE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

ADVERTISING IN EXCELSIS.

    SCENE--_Interior of the Universal Advertisement Stations
    Company's Offices. Managing Director discovered presiding
    over a large staff of Clerks. Enter Possible Customer._

_Possible Customer._ I see from the papers that it is proposed to turn
the Suez Canal to account by erecting hoardings--have you anything to
do with it?

_Managing Director._ No, Sir; but we do a very large cosmopolitan
business of the same sort. Have you anything to advertise?

_Pos. Cus._ Well, yes--several things. For instance, I am bringing out
a new sort of Beer. Can you recommend me good stations for that?

_Man. Dir._ Certainly, Sir. We have contracted for the whole of the
best positions in the Desert of Sahara. If you get out a good poster
in Arabic, it should be the means of furthering the trade amongst the
Arabs.

_Pos. Cus._ Thanks. Then I have a fresh Pill. What about that?

_Man. Dir._ Well, Sir, pills (excuse the pleasantry) are rather a drug
in the market; but I think we might try it amongst the Esquimaux.
We have some capital crossroads in the Arctic Regions, and a really
commanding position at the North Pole.

_Pos. Cus._ What can I do with a newly-patented Disinfectant?

_Man. Dir._ We have the Spire of Cologne Cathedral, and both sides of
the Bridge of Sighs; in fact, if you like to push the sale in
Venice, we would offer you the front of the Doge's Palace on the most
advantageous terms.

_Pos. Cus._ Then I have an Everlasting Boot.

_Man. Dir._ I must confess, Sir, that boots (you will excuse the
pleasantry) are rather worn out; but perhaps the Himalayas (where we
have all the summits vacant) might suit your purpose.

_Pos. Cus._ Well, I will give your suggestions my best consideration.

_Man. Dir._ (_anxious to trade_). Can't I tempt you, Sir, with a
million bills or so? We have all the best Royal Palaces in Europe, and
the most frequented of the Indian Temples. There is scarcely a spot
of any historical interest that we have not secured for our hoardings.
Just added the Field of Waterloo, the Temple Gardens, and site of
ancient Carthage to our list. We can do it very cheaply for you, Sir,
if your order is a large one.

_Pos. Cus._ How about the papers?

_Man. Dir._ Well, we insert advertisements in them, too. Shall we
begin with three columns in all the leading journals of the world?

_Pos. Cus._ No, thank you. I think I will commence on a somewhat
smaller scale. (_Gives document._) Here is an order for three inches
for one insertion on the leader-page of the _Pimlico Pump_.

    [_Exit._

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Lords, Monday, August 15th._--Lords met to-day in charmingly
casual way. Since they were last here, Government been defeated;
the MARKISS out, Mr. G. in, and all that means or portends. Not
many present, but the MARKISS in his place smiling in unaffected
joyousness, just as Prince ARTHUR did in Commons when the end came.

[Illustration: "Very odd!"]

"Very odd," said PICKERSGILL, pressing his hat to his bosom; "it seems
nothing amuses the CECILS and their family belongings so much as a
reverse at the Poll."

The MARKISS in such exuberant good humour at seeing KIMBERLEY opposite
to him, could not resist temptation to try on little joke. It was
not, he said, either desirable or usual that he, as outgoing Minister,
should say anything on present occasion. But perhaps KIMBERLEY would
oblige, and would give House full exposition of intentions of new
Ministry with respect to foreign and domestic affairs. KIMBERLEY
gravely answered, that not yet being Minister of the Crown, nor having
had opportunity of consulting with his colleagues, he was unprepared
to make statement on subject.

In this dilemma DENMAN came to front. "My Lords--" he said. What
more he would have uttered is lost to posterity. MARKISS had moved
adjournment of House, and HALSBURY, who has had long practice on this
particular wicket, promptly bowled DENMAN out, by putting question and
declaring it carried. DENMAN stood moment looking, more in sorrow than
anger, at noble Lords hurrying out with unwonted agility.

[Illustration: THE NEW CABINET.]

"They made a mistake," he murmured; "especially HALSBURY. All I wanted
was to propose vote of thanks to him for the grace and dignity with
which he has presided over Debates in this House, and the manner in
which he has, by his dispensation of patronage, preserved the highest
traditions of his office, and even raised its lofty tone. Too late
now, too late;" and the old gentleman putting his crumpled papers in
his pocket, and wrapping his soiled pocket-handkerchief round the knob
of his walking-stick, strode sadly forth.

[Illustration: "Bless me!"]

Perhaps it was sight of this pathetic figure that sobered the MARKISS.
Anyhow, as we walked out together, found him in subdued mood, more
fitting the occasion than that assumed when addressing House. "All
over at last, TOBY," he said; "and I may go down to Hatfield, take
off my coat, and have a day's, or even a week's serene pleasure in my
workshop. I'm nobody of any account now, _ni_ Premier, _ni_ Foreign
Minister. Do you remember the lines written by an unknown hand on the
ruins of Berytus, which TRYPHON, King of Syria, sacked a hundred and
forty years before the Star rose at Bethlehem? I was thinking of them
just now, even when I was chaffing KIMBERLEY:--

  'Stay not your course, O Mariners, or me,
    Nor furl your sails--is not my harbour dry?
    Nought but one vast, forsaken tomb am I.
  But steer for other lands, from sorrow free,
    Where, by a happier and more prosp'rous shore,
    Your anchor ye may drop, and rest your oar.'"

"Not at all," I said.

Rather an inadequate remark, I see, when I come to write it down. I'd
say something better if the MARKISS would repeat the lines.

_Business done._--MARKISS announces Resignation of Ministry.

       *       *       *       *       *

_House of Commons, Thursday._--House seems to have been meeting all
day. Began at three o'clock: Sitting suspended at half-past; resumed
at 4.30; off again till nine; might have been continued indefinitely
through night, only thunderstorm of unparalleled ferocity burst
over Metropolis, and put an end to further manoeuvring. "Bless me!"
tremulously murmured Lord SALISBURY's Black Man, as a peal of thunder
shook Clock Tower, and lighted up House of Lords with lurid flame, "if
these are home politics, wish I'd stayed in far-off Ind."

At first gathering in Commons, parties changed sides. "The sheep to
the right, the goats to the left," as WILLIAM FIELD, Esq., M.P., said,
daintily crossing the floor.

[Illustration: William Field, Esq., M.P.]

This remark does not imply anything rude. Fact is FIELD, when at home
in Dublin, holds lofty position of President of Irish Cattle-Traders'
and Stock-Owners' Association. Similes from the stockyard come
naturally to his lips. Promises to be acquisition to Parliamentary
life. Is certainly lovely to look upon, with his flowing hair, his
soft felt hat, the glossy black of his necktie contrasting with glossy
white of his boundless shirt-front. Thought at first he was a poet;
rather disappointing to find he's only a butcher. Whatever he be, he's
refreshing to the eye, wearied with monotony of last Parliament.

Writs moved for new Elections consequent on acceptance of Office.
Lobby seems full of new Whips, whom JACOB grimly eyes. CAUSTON with
unusually troubled look on manly brow. "What's the matter?" I asked.
"Afraid you'll be chucked?"

"Oh, no!" he said; "Southwark's safe enough. But they're such doose
of fellows down there. Remember at General Election one took me neat.
After I had made speech to crowded meeting, lot of questions put.
Answered them all satisfactorily. At last one fellow got up, asked
me, in voice of thunder, 'Are you, in favour of temperance?' Rather
ticklish thing that, you know. As many against it as for it. Looked
all round the room; seemed remarkably decent lot; the man who was
heckling me a little rubicund as to the nose; but that might be
indigestion. Anyhow, felt unless I could satisfy him, I'd lose his
vote. 'Are you in favour of temperance?' he roared again. 'Yes, I am;'
I said, heartily. 'Then I ain't!' he roared back; and stamped his
way out of the room. That's the sort of fellows they are down at
Southwark. Never know where you have 'em. Generally turns out they
have _you_."

_Business done._--Thunderstorm and Prorogation.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE BUILDER AND THE ARCHITECT.

[Illustration]

  The sun was shining on the fog,
    Shining with all his might:
  He did his very best to make
    The London day look bright--
  And yet it seemed as though it were
    The middle of the night.

  The Builder and the Architect
    Were walking close at hand;
  They wept like anything to see
    Such eligible land:
  "If this were only built upon,"
    They said, "it _would_ be grand!"

  "Oh, Tenants, come and live with us!"
    The Builder did entreat,
  "And take a little villa in
    This countrified retreat,
  Where stand straight rows of houses,
    So very new and neat!"

  The elder Tenants looked at him,
    But never a word said they;
  The elder Tenants winked their eyes,
    As though they meant to say,
  "Old birds, like we, are never caught
    By chaff in such a way."

  But four young Tenants hurried up,
    Each eager to rent one;
  Their looks were pale, their faces white,
    Like muffins underdone--
  Which was not odd, because, you know,
    They never saw the sun.

  The Builder and the Architect
    Went on a year or so
  Building damp villas on damp ground
    Conveniently low:
  And still some little houses stood
    Quite empty in the row.

  "I cannot think," the Builder said,
    "Why people should complain
  Of mortar made of mud from roads,
    Or roofs that let in rain,
  Or sewer-gas that comes from an
    Unventilated drain."

  "A fair return," the Builder said,
    "Two hundred, say, per cent.,
  Is all the profit that I want
    On anything I've spent,
  Now, if you're ready, Tenants dear,
    I'll take the quarter's rent."

  "But not from us," the Tenants cried,
    "The houses are so new,
  They've made us all so very ill
    We don't know what to do."
  "The County Court," the Builder said,
    "Is very near to you."

  "I tell you what," the Builder said,
    "I fear that I must seize
  Your furniture, unless you pay;
    So fork out, if you please."
  And even he, in that damp air,
    Began to cough and sneeze.

  "Oh, Tenants," said the Architect,
    "Just think what I have done,
  Designing such æsthetic homes!"
    But answer came there none--
  And this was scarcely odd, because
    They'd perished every one.

       *       *       *       *       *

UNDER CONSIDERATION, AUGUST 21.

No appointment could be more appropriate and in accordance with
the fitness of things than to make a GARDNER the new Minister of
Agriculture. Of course it has been suggested that a Rural Dean should
succeed to the vacant Chaplincy.

       *       *       *       *       *

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





*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, August 27, 1892" ***

Doctrine Publishing Corporation provides digitized public domain materials.
Public domain books belong to the public and we are merely their custodians.
This effort is time consuming and expensive, so in order to keep providing
this resource, we have taken steps to prevent abuse by commercial parties,
including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.

We also ask that you:

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Doctrine Publishing
Corporation's ISYS search for use by individuals, and we request that you
use these files for personal, non-commercial purposes.

+ Refrain from automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort
to Doctrine Publishing's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a
large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the use of
public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.

+ Keep it legal -  Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for
ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just because
we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States,
that the work is also in the public domain for users in other countries.
Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we
can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of any specific book is
allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Doctrine Publishing
ISYS search  means it can be used in any manner anywhere in the world.
Copyright infringement liability can be quite severe.

About ISYS® Search Software
Established in 1988, ISYS Search Software is a global supplier of enterprise
search solutions for business and government.  The company's award-winning
software suite offers a broad range of search, navigation and discovery
solutions for desktop search, intranet search, SharePoint search and embedded
search applications.  ISYS has been deployed by thousands of organizations
operating in a variety of industries, including government, legal, law
enforcement, financial services, healthcare and recruitment.



Home