Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, August 6, 1892

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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, August 6, 1892
Author: Various
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, August 6, 1892" ***

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 103.

August 6, 1892.

DRURIOLANUS IN (MUSIC) AULIS.

The Augustan Age is to be revived at the new Palace Theatre of
Varieties, late CARTE's English Opera House, for two of the imperial
name of AUGUSTUS are foremost among the Directors of this new
enterprise--which word "enterprise" is preferable to "undertaking."
Sir AUGUSTUS leads; and GEORGIUS AUGUSTUS follows in the cast as
Second Director,--with or without song is not mentioned. In comparison
with this transformation of an Opera House into a Theatre of
Varieties, no political combination of any sort or kind, no change
either in the Ministry or in our home or foreign policy, is so likely
to cause trouble to The Empire; i.e., the Empire in Leicester Square.

[Illustration: "AFTER THE OP'RA IS OVER."

Sir Augustus Coventgardenensis, the Singing-Bird Showman, bows his
Acknowledgments.]

We understand that Sir AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS, in addition to his
interest in Covent Garden, Drury Lane, the Royal English Opera House,
and various enterprises in town, country, and abroad, is about to
turn his attention to other matters. _On dit_ that he is in treaty
for St. Paul's Cathedral, Westminster Abbey, and the City Temple, for
a series of Sunday Oratorios. It is also not improbable that he may
become, for a short time, Lessee of Exeter Hall, Buckingham Palace,
and the Banqueting-hall of Hampton Court, for a series of Popular
Picture-Shows. No doubt he will bring from Russia a new and entire
Cosmopolitan Opera Company, to give a performance on the top of the
Monument. Should there be an overflow, the audience turned away will
be accommodated with seats in the Duke of York's Column. He is said
to be in negociation for novelties for next year's London Season in
various parts of the globe. It is possible that he may bring over the
entire "World's Show" from Chicago, to give a solitary performance
on an eligible spot recently acquired for this purpose in the
neighbourhood of Primrose Hill. It is not unlikely that he may
re-erect the ancient Pyramids at the back of Olympia, if satisfactory
arrangements can be made with the Egyptian Government. Looking to
the future, it is asserted that he has undertaken to accept the
stage-direction of the next European War with those nations bound
together in the Treaty of the Triple Alliance. Further--DRURIOLANUS
MAXIMUS is considering the transport to London of the North Pole,
laying the Zoological Gardens under contribution for a service of
bears to climb it. Sir DRURIOLANUS mustn't overdo it. He holds a
handful of cards, but he is so good a _prestidigitateur_ that he is
pretty sure to transform them into trumps. Likewise Sir DRURIO knows
how to perform on the Trump of Fame.

* * * * *

TOAST--We beg to propose the health of the liberal-minded purchaser of
the Althorp Library, who intends to keep the books in a building open
to all readers, adapting the toastmaster's phrase for the occasion,
and giving, "Our Noble Shelves!"

* * * * *

LAYS OF MODERN HOME.

NO. 4.--CHLOE'S APPROPRIATION CLAWS.

[Illustration]

A ye who bless the wedded state
With tributes born of generous blindness,
Bemourn the fate that well may wait
Your gifted kindness.

My CHLOE's ultra-modern mind
Transforms your Dresden's grace and Chelsea's,
The toys for special use designed,
To something else's.

For CHLOE reads each weekly print,
Where Art's resource is blent with Scandal's,
Where decorative females hint
Their cure for Vandals.

Your large, expensive Wedgwood bowls,
She bids her "Lor!"-exclaiming waitress
To cram with large, expensive coals,
The pretty traitress!

On daintiest overmantel's ledge
She sets enshrined your prosy platter;
Your salt-cellars she stocks with veg-
etable matter.

And when the Summer comes (if hail
For once not hails the sunny swallows)
Our fenders hold your statues pale
Of chipped Apollos.

With out-of-fashion toilet sets,
Their sprigs of ringstands, bits of boxes,
She picturesques her cabinet's
Quaint heterodoxies.

My blue tobacco-jar she'll hoard
For party-nights, and on the basket
Whereon my manuscripts are stored
Will throne--a casket!

"Ingenious" CHLOE, sure, opines
Is Genius' proper derivation;
"Appropriate" with her defines
Appropriation.

Poor STREPHON, fond, bewildered wight!
He doubts, amazed by changes showy,
If CHLOE's own be STREPHON quite,
Or STREPHON's, CHLOE!

* * * * *

BIRDS OF A FEATHER.

["He (Mr. GLADSTONE) has not as yet even secured the spoil,
but the Vultures are already gathered together."--_Mr.
Chamberlain at Birmingham._]

The Vultures, dear JOE? Nay, it needs no apology
To say you are out in your new ornithology.
The Vultures are carrion-birds, be it said;
And the Man and the Cause you detest are _not_ dead!
Much as his decease was desired, he's alive,
And the Cause is no carcase. So, JOE, you must strive
To get nearer the truth. Shall we help you? All fowls
Are not Vultures. For instance, dear JOE, there are Owls,
(Like JESSE) and Ravens much given to croaking,
(in Ulster they're noisy, though some think they're joking),
Then Parrots are plentiful everywhere, JOE,
(They keep on repeating your chatter, you know,
As they did in the days when you railed about ransom;
But Parrots are never wise birds, JOE, though handsome);
Then Geese, Jays, and Daws; yet they're birds of a feather,
And they, my dear JOSEPH, _are_ gathered together,
To hiss, squeal and peck at the Party they'd foil,
But who're like to secure--as you phrase it--"the spoil."
Yes, these be the birds most _en évidence_ now;
And by Jingo, my JOE, they _are_ raising a row.
They're full of cacophonous fuss, and loud spite;
And they don't take their licking as well as they might.
In fact, they're a rather contemptible crew;
And--well, of which species, dear JOSEPH, are _you_?

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE BEWILDERED TOURIST AND THE RIVAL SIRENS.

(_A LONG WAY AFTER TENNYSON'S "THE DESERTED HOUSE_.")

"_June and July have passed away,_
_Like a tide._
_Doors are open, windows wide._
_Why in stuffy London stay?_"
Sing the Sirens (slyboots they!)
With a Tennysonian twang,
To the Tourist,
(Not the poorest
You may bet your bottom dollar,
Which those Sirens aim to "collar."
_Demoiselles_, excuse the slang!)

"All within is dark as night,
In Town's windows is no light,
And no caller at your door,
Swell or beggar, chum or bore!
Close the door, the shutters close,
Or thro' windows folks will see,
The nakedness and vacancy,
Of the dark deserted house!"

"Come away! no more of mirth
Is here, or merry-making sound.
The house is shut, and o'er the earth
Man roves upon the Regular Round
Come away! Life, Love, Trade, Thought,
Here no longer dwell;
Shopkeepers censorious
Sigh, "What swells would buy, they've bought.
They are off! No more we'll sell.
Would they could have stayed with us!"

"Come away!" So Sirens sing--
Sly, seducious, and skittish--
To the Tourist, wealthy, British,
When Society's on the wing,
Or should be, for "Foreign Parts."
British BULL mistrusts their arts.
"Come away!"
(One doth say),
"_Our Emperor is quiet to-day!_"
Cries another,
"Come, my brother,
"_Avalanches down again!_"
Sings a third, with beckoning fingers,
"_Come, come, where the Cholera lingers_."
While a fourth--is it her fun?--
With the wide blue eyes of Hope
(As though advertising Soap),
Shouts, with glee,
"Come with me,
Unto Norroway, o'er the foam,
Far from home,
Wait there to see
Our (invisible) Midnight Sun!"

BULL, the tweed-clad British Tourist,
Muses--"Home seems the securest,
On the whole. Why widely ramble,
Tramp, and climb, and spend, and gamble,
Face infection, dulness, danger,
All the woe that waits "the Stranger,"
And the Tourist (rich) environs,
At the call of foreign Sirens,
When home charmers, bright-eyed, active,
Offer "metal more attractive?"
Four such darlings who'll discover
O'er the seas? Shall I, their lover,
Still discard them for yon minxes,
Harpies with the eyes of "lynxes"?
ALBION dear, and CAMBRIA mild,
CALEDONIA stern and wild,
As your poet said, but pretty;
HIBEBNIA mavourneen, jetty-
Hair'd, and azure-eyed, I greet ye!
Darlings, I am charmed to meet ye.
_Why_ go wandering o'er the foam,
Like a latter-day ULYSSES,
When warm charms and wooing-kisses
Of such Sirens Four wait me at home?"

* * * * *

[Illustration: UNLUCKY COMPLIMENT.

_Shoeblack_ (_wishing to please liberal and important Customer_).
"SHOULDN'T LIKE TO GET A KICK FROM _You_, Sin!" [_Gets one on the
spot._]

* * * * *

"L'HOMME PROPOSE--."

[Gentlemen are now coached "How to Propose."]

[Illustration]

They sat it out upon the stairs,
Those dear old stairs! Ah me; how many
A time they've cost, all unawares,
A pretty penny!

Why they were fools enough to go
To sit on stairs, and miss the fun,
Quite baffles me; but still, you know,
It _has_ been done.

The lights were low--lights often are--
I deem the fact though worth the noting,
And strains of music from afar
Came softly floating.

So whilst she pondered what Mamma
Would think, the band commenced to play
The epidemical "_Ta-ra-_
_ra-boom-de-ay!_"

He gazed into her eyes (of blue),
Sighed once as if it hurt him badly,
Then told her how 'twas but too true
He loved her madly.

With highly creditable skill
He turned the well-worn platitude--
His own unworthiness until
You really could

Not but admire each word, each look.
His speech was quite unrivalled in its
Intensity--in fact it took
At least ten minutes.

A peroration full of flowers,
A moisture in his other eye,
And then a pause--it seemed of hours--
For her reply.

Her answer came. He thought of it,
It haunted him for long years after,
She simply burst into a fit
Of ribald laughter.

And certainly it was absurd,
She laughed till she could laugh no more;
She'd heard the same thing, to a word,
The day before.

Two tyros in the Art of Love,
Each ARABELLA's ardent suitor,
Unluckily were pupils of
The self-same tutor!

So, should you fail to understand
A maiden's answer, this may show
Why sometimes Man proposes and
The Girl says "No!"

* * * * *

SKIRTS AND FIGURES.--M. JACOBI, of the Alhambra, has composed a
"Skirt-dance," which has recently appeared in the _Figaro_. That the
skirts for which the Composer has written are brand-new, and require
no mending, is evident from the fact that, from first to last, there
is no "Skirt-sew"--in Italian, _Scherzo_--movement.

* * * * *

A ROLLICKING SHOW.

In the International Horticultural Exhibition is, as advertised, "the
Kiosk of the Australian Irrigation Colonies (CHAFFEY Bros.)." What
fun the CHAFFEY Brothers must make of everything in the Exhibition!
As long as the other exhibitors don't mind the chaff of the CHAFFEY
Brothers, all will be harmonious. No doubt, round their Kiosk there
are crowds all day, in roars of laughter, at the chaffing perpetually
going on. The travelling Cheap Jack, were he in the building, would
have some difficulty to hold his own against even one of the CHAFFEY
Brothers, but pitted against an unlimited number of CHAFFEY Brothers,
for their number is not stated in the advertisement, the unfortunate
Cheap Jack would not be let, off cheaply. Apart from BUFFALO
BILL, whose Show with a variety of novelties, is still a very big
attraction, and the other amusements, this exhibit of CHAFFEY Brothers
engaged in chaff-cutting, must be about one of the most attractive
things in the Horticultural. By the way, in this same advertisement,
there is a mysterious announcement "Stand 48." Of course, if in
addition to their entertainment, they "stand 48 "--though with this
vintage we are not acquainted; perhaps it should be '84 Pommery,--then
the Brothers are simply _hors de concours_, and competition would be
hopeless.

* * * * *

THE VERY PLACE FOR THE NEXT SPARRING MATCH.--"Box Hill."

* * * * *

ON THE SANDS.

(_A SKETCH AT MARGATE._)

_Close under the Parade Watt a large circle has been formed,
consisting chiefly of Women on chairs and camp-stools, with an
inner ring of small children, who are all patiently awaiting
the arrival of a troupe of Niggers. At the head of one of
the flights of steps leading up to the Parade, a small and
shrewish Child-nurse is endeavouring to detect and recapture
a pair of prodigal younger Brothers, who have given her the
slip._

_Sarah_ (_to herself_). Wherever can them two plegs have got to?
(_Aloud; drawing a bow at a venture_) ALBERT! 'ENERY! Come up 'ere
this minnit. _I_ see yer!

_'Enery_ (_under the steps--to Albert_). I say--d'ye think she
_do_?--'cos if--

_Albert_. Not she! Set tight. [_They sit tight._]

_Sarah_ (_as before_). 'ENERY! ALBERT! You've bin and 'alf killed
little GEORGIE between yer!

_'Enery_ (_moved, to Albert_). Did you 'ear that, BERT? It wasn't _me_
upset him--was it now?

_Albert_ (_impenitent_). 'Oo cares! The Niggers'll be back direckly.

_Sarah_. AL-BERT! 'ENERY! Your father's bin down 'ere once after you.
You'll _ketch_ it!

_Albert_ (_sotto voce_). Not till Father ketches _us_, we shan't. Keep
still, 'ENERY--we're all right under 'ere!

_Sarah_ (_more diplomatically_). 'ENERY! ALBERT! Father's bin and left
a 'ap'ny apiece for yer. Ain't yer comin' up for it? If yer don't want
it, why, stay where you are, that's all!

_Albert_ (_to 'Enery_). I _knoo_ we 'adn't done nothin'. An' I'm goin'
up to git that ap'ny, I am.

_'Enery_. So'm I. [_They emerge, and ascend the steps--to be pounced
upon immediately by the ingenious SARAH._

_Sarah_. 'Ap'ny, indeed! You won't git no 'apence _'ere, I_ can tell
yer--so jest you come along 'ome with me!

[Illustration: "Come to these legs!"]

[_Exeunt ALBERT and 'ENERY, in captivity, as the Niggers
enter the circle._

_Bones._ We shall commence this afternoon by 'olding our Grand Annual
Weekly Singing Competition, for the Discouragement of Youthful Talent.
Now then, which is the little gal to step out first and git a medal?
(_The Children giggle, but remain seated._) Not one? Now I arsk
_you_--What _is_ the use o' me comin' 'ere, throwin' away thousands
and thousands of pounds on golden medals, if you won't take the
trouble to stand up and sing for them? Oh, you'll make me so wild, I
shall begin spittin' 'alf-sovereigns directly--I _know_ I shall! (_A
little Girl in a sun-bonnet comes forward._) Ah, 'ere's a young lady
who's bustin' with melody, _I_ can see. Your name, my dear? Ladies
and Gentleman, I have the pleasure to announce that Miss CONNIE COCKLE
will now appear. Don't curtsey till the Orchestra gives the chord.
(_Chord from the harmonium--the Child advances, and curtsies with much
aplomb._) Oh, lor! call _that_ a curtsey--that's a _cramp_, that
is! Do it all over again! (_The Child obeys, disconcerted._) That's
_worse_! I can see the s'rimps blushin' for yer inside their paper
bags! Now see Me do it. (Bones _executes a caricature of a curtsey,
which the little Girl copies with terrible fidelity_.) That's
_ladylike_--that's genteel. Now sing _out! (The Child sings the first
verse of a popular Music-hall song, in a squeaky little voice._) Talk
about nightingales! Come 'ere, and receive the reward for extinguished
incapacity. On your knees! (_The little Girl kneels before him while
a tin medal is fastened upon her frock._) Rise, Sir CONNIE COCKLE! Oh,
you _lucky_ girl!

_The Child returns, swelling with triumph, to her companions,
several of whom come out, and go through the same performance,
with more or less squeakiness and self-possession._

_First Admiring Matron_ (_in audience_). I do like to see the children
kep' out o' mischief like this, instead o' goin' paddling and messing
about the sands!

_Second Ad. Mat._ Just what _I_ say, my dear--they're amused and
edjucated 'ow to beyave at the same time!

_First Politician_ (_with the "Standard"_). No, but look here--when
GLADSTONE was asked in the House whether he proposed to give the
Dublin Parliament the control of the Police, what was his answer?
Why....

_The Niggers_ (_striking up chorus_). "Rum-tumty-diddly-umpty-doodah
dey! Rum-tumty--diddly--um," was all that he could say! And
the Members and the Speaker joined together in the lay. Of
"Rum--tumty-diddly-umty doodah-dey!"

_Second Pol._ (_with the "Star"_). Well, and what more would you have
_'ad_ him say? Come, now!

_Alf._ (_who has had quite enough ale at dinner--to his fiancée_).
These Niggers ain't up to much, Loo. Can't sing for _nuts_!

_Chorley_ (_his friend--perfidiously_). You'd better go in and show
'em how, old man. Me and Miss SERGE'll stay and see you take the shine
out of 'em!

_Alf_. P'raps you think I can't. But, if _I_ was to go upon the 'Alls
now, I should make my fortune in no time! Loo's 'eard me when I've
been in form, and she'll tell you--

_Miss Serge_. Well, I will say there's many a professional might learn
a lesson from ALF--whether Mr. PERKINS believes it or not.

[_Cuttingly, to "CHOH-LEY."_

_Chorley_. Now reelly, Miss Loo, don't come down on a feller like
that. I want to see him do you credit, that's all, and he couldn't
'ave a better opportunity to distinguish himself--now _could_ he?

_Miss Serge_. _I'm_ not preventing him. But I don't know--these
niggers keep themselves very select, and they might object to it.

_Alf_. I'll soon square _them_. You keep your eye on me, and I'll make
things a bit livelier! [_He enters the Circle._

_Miss Serge_ (_admiringly_). He _has_ got a cheek, I must say! Look
at him, dancing there along with those two Niggers--they don't hardly
know what to make of him yet!

_Chorley_. Do you notice how they keep kicking him beyind on the sly
like? I wonder he puts up with it!

_Miss S._ He'll be even with them presently--you see if he isn't.

[ALF _attempts to twirl a tambourine on his finger, and lets
it fall; derision from audience_; Bones _pats him on the head,
and takes the tambourine away--at which_ ALF _only smiles
feebly._

_Chorley._ It's a pity he gets so 'ot dancing, and he don't seem to
keep in step with the others.

_Miss S._ (_secretly disappointed_). He isn't used to doing the
double-shuffle on sand, that's all.

_The Conductor_. Bones, I observe we have a recent addition to our
Company. Perhaps he'll favour us with a solo. (_Aside to Bones._) 'Oo
is he? 'Oo let him in 'ere--_you_?

_Bones_. _I_ dunno. I thought _you_ did. Ain't he stood nothing?

_Conductor_. Not a brass farden!

_Bones_ (_outraged_). All right, you leave him to me. (_To ALF._) Kin
it be? That necktie! them familiar coat-buttons! that paper-dicky! You
are--you _are_ my long-lost Convick Son, 'ome from Portland! Come to
these legs! (_He embraces ALF, and smothers him with kisses._) Oh,
you've been and rubbed off some of your cheek on my complexion--you
_dirty_ boy! (_He playfully "bashes" ALF's hat in._) Now show the
comp'ny how pretty you can sing. (_ALF attempts a Music-hall ditty,
in which he, not unnaturally, breaks down._) It ain't my son's fault,
Ladies and Gentlemen, it's all this little gal in front here, lookin'
at him and makin' him shy! (_To a small Child, severely._) You
oughter know _worse_, you ought! (_Clumps of sea-weed and paper-balls
are thrown at ALF, who by this time is looking deplorably warm and
foolish._) Oh, what a popilar fav'rite he is to be sure!

_Charley_ (_to Miss S._). Poor fellow, he ain't no match 'for those
Niggers--not like he is now! Hadn't I better go to the rescue, Miss
Loo?

_Miss S._ (_pettishly_). I'm sure I don't care _what_ you do.

[_"CHORLEY" succeeds, after some persuasion, in removing the
unfortunate ALF._

_Alf._ (_rejoining his fiancée with a grimy face, a smashed hat, and a
pathetic attempt at a grin_). Well? I _done_ it, you see!

_Miss S._ (_crushingly_). Yes, you _have_ done it! And the best thing
you can do now, is to go home and wash your face. _I_ don't care to
be seen about with a _laughing-stock_, I can assure you! I've had my
dignity lowered quite enough as it is!

_Alf_. But look 'ere, my dear girl, I can't leave you here all by
yourself, you know!

_Miss S._ I daresay Mr. PERKINS will take care of me.

[_Mr. P. assents, with effusion._

_Alf._ (_watching them move away--with bitterness_). I wish
all Niggers were put down by Act of Parliament, I do! Downright
noosances--that's what _they_ are!

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

[Illustration: Ulysses on Tour.]

Ulysses has been travelling again, and the record of his journeyings
is set forth in _The Modern Odyssey_, which CASSELL & Co. publish in
one volume, with some charming illustrations in callotype.

My Baronite notes a quaint disposition on the part of the old
gentleman to begin at the very beginning. Thus, when he lands in New
York, he furnishes a brief account of COLUMBUS, and how he came to
discover America. The early history of Australia, and eke of China,
are dealt with in the same instructive manner. This is all very well
for ULYSSES, who comes fresh on the scene, and learns for the first
time all about the Genoese, about Captain COOK, and how "a little more
than a century ago eleven ships sailed from England," anchored in
the Bay where now Sydney stands, and--strange to say!--did not find
a populous city, but only green fields and a river running into the
sea. _Pour nous autres_, age has somewhat withered the bloom of this
story, and it might have been left peacefully slumbering in the
Encyclopædias. But it can be skipped, and, for the rest, there will
be found a swift succession of pictures of life and scenery in the
Greater Britain that girdles the world. ULYSSES must have been much
struck with the change since he first went a gipsying. But of that he
discreetly says nothing.

BARON DE BOOK-WORMS & Co.

* * * * *

WE'VE GOT OUR LYNX EYE ON HIM!--In the _Times'_ legal reports for
Tuesday, July 26, 1892, Queen's Bench Division, Colonel FITZGEORGE
sued a Mr. ROLLS CALVERT LINK. Mr. CANNOT defended LINK. But CANNOT
Could Not do much for his client LINK, who did not appear. Evidently,
"The Missing Link."

* * * * *

"COURT ON!"

[Illustration: Stephensonius, B.C. (_date uncertain_), qui Jacobum
Fidelem scripsit. (From an old Bronze Medal.)]

The "Triple Bill" still going strong at the Court. The _New Sub_, a
smartly-written little One-Act Play, by SEYMOUR HICKS, notable for
good performance all round, but especially for the rendering of
_Mrs. Darlington_, by Miss GERTRUDE KINGSTON, of _Major Ensor_,
by BRANDON THOMAS, and of _Second-Lieutenant Darlington_, by Mr.
ERNEST BERTRAM--uncommonly Earnest BERTRAM. The Scene is in a Hut at
Shorncliffe. Hutcætera. If _Lieutenant Crookendon's_ catch--phrase
about "a funny world" were repeated just about five times less
frequently than it is, the piece, the part, and the public would be
distinctly gainers.

[Illustration: Faithful James, as originally seen on the walls of
Winchester College.]

At 9:10, appears _Faithful James_, represented by Mr. WEEDON
GROSSMITH. It is a finished and quietly droll performance. The author,
Mr. B.C. STEPHENSON ("B.C." makes him quite a classic--date uncertain,
so his plot may have been done in collaboration, with PLAUTUS or
TERENCE) has reproduced from the French a neatly-constructed One-Act
piece, in which are all the possibilities of a Three-Act Criterion
or Palais Royal Farcical Comedy. So rapid is the action, all over in
about forty-five minutes, and so much to the point of the plot is the
dialogue, that an inattentive auditor would soon lose the thread of
the argument, never to pick it up again anywhere. Miss ELLALINE TERRIS
is just that very _Mrs. Duncan_. BRANDON THOMAS is a breezy, brusque,
and Admirable Admiral; and Mr. DRAYCOTT a hearty husband, very much
in love with his pretty little wife. Mr. LITTLE makes much, perhaps
almost a Little too much, of his small but essentially important
part,--they are all important parts,--and of Miss SYBIL GREY can be
said "_Nous savons Gré à Mlle. Sybil_." Mr. SIDNEY WARDEN's Character
Sketch of the young and rather raw German Waiter, is excellent; the
Waiter being "raw," is not overdone. Not a dull second in the farce.
Will our B.C. Author give us some of his adaptations from PLAUTUS,
TERENCE (some good old Irish plots of course, in the writings of
this author), and a few other ancients with whom he was, it is most
probable, personally and intimately acquainted. To think that the
_Wandering Jew_, who can only sign himself "A.D.", is "not in it" in
point of time with our STEPHENSON "B.C."!

After this comes the _Pantomime Rehearsal_, which everybody should
see, and which nearly everybody must have seen by this time. Success
to the Triple Bill, which, in the political world, might mean Sir
WILLIAM HARCOURT and WILLIAM GLADSTONE, the latter WILLIAM "counting
two on a division."

* * * * *

EXACT.--"He is something in the Church," said Mrs. R., trying to
describe the social position of a clerical friend of hers. "I forget
what it is, but it's a something like 'Dromedary;' only, you needn't
smile, of course I know it couldn't be that, as a Dromedary has two
humps on his back. Or, stop!" she exclaimed, suddenly, "am I confusing
him with a Minor Camel?"

* * * * *

[Illustration: WELL MEANT, BUT AWKWARDLY PUT.

"SO GLAD YOU HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN ME, DEAR LORD VARICOSE; I WAS AFRAID
YOU WOULD, AFTER SO MANY YEARS!"

"OH, NO, MISS EVERGREEN; I NEVER FORGET OLD FACES!"'

* * * * *

WOT CHER!

OR, KNOCKED 'EM IN THE WEST-MIN-IS-TER ROAD.

(_WITH MR. PUNCH'S RESPECTFUL APOLOGIES TO THE GREAT COSTER LAUREATE,
MR. ALBERT CHEVALIER_.)

_Coster Bill sings_:--

Last week down our way there come a chap,
Sort o' "Sausage." Lots o' go and snap.
Twigs my Missus, and takes orf 'is cap,
In a (German) gentlemanly way.
"Ma'am," says 'e, "I've 'appy news to tell.
SOL, of 'Atfield (rich old Tory Swell),
Snuffed it recent, to 'is sort a sell,
Leaving you this little Donkey Shay."

_CHORUS_.

"Wot cher!" all the neighbours cried,
"Who're yer goin' to meet, BILL?
'Ave yer bought the street, BILL?"
Laugh!! I thought I should 'ave died.
Knock'd 'em in the West-min-is-ter Road!

Some says nasty things about the moke,
"Won't got fur afore _'is_ back is broke!"
That's all envy, cos we're kerridge folk,
Like the Tory Toffs wot 'ave to _go_!
Straight! it woke the Tories up a bit.
Thought BRUM JOE would go and 'ave a fit,
When my Missus, who 'as Irish wit,
Sez "I 'ate Brum Brooms[1] becos they're low!"

_CHORUS_.

"Wot cher!" all the neighbours cried.
"Who're yer goin' to meet, BILL?
'Ave yer bought the street, BILL?"
Missus, she the Shamrock waved with pride.
Knock'd 'em in the West-min-is-ter Road!

Some sez werry soon the moke'll stop;
Not hup to _our_ weight, but bound ter drop.
No use whackin' 'im with pole or prop,
'Cos the warmint wasn't _made_ to go.
Well, it ain't hexact a four-in-'and;
But me and the Missus hunderstand,
If we drive together we shall "land,"
Wich to Tory toffs'll be a blow.

_CHORUS_.

"Wot cher!" all the neighbours cried.
Who're yer goin' to meet, BILL?
'Ave yer bought the street, BILL?"
Win? You bet! with BIDDY by my side.
Knock'd in the West-min-is-ter Road!

Wait till arter August four or five!
Me and Missus, we will take a drive.
Toffs say, "Wonderful they're still alive!"
You shall see that little Donkey go!
I'll soon show 'em wot we mean to do;
Just wot my old Missus wants me to;
And in spite of all that rowdy crew,
'Ollerin' "Woa! Steady! Neddy, woa!"

_CHORUS_.

"Wot cher!" all the neighbours cried.
"Who're yer goin' to meet, BILL?
'Ave yer bought the street, BILL?"
Laugh? We'll make 'em laugh on 'tother side,
And knock 'em in the West-min-is-ter Road!

[Footnote 1: The Hibernian lady doubtless means "Broughams."]

* * * * *

VOLUNTEER VITTICISM.--Definition of "Marksmen"--Writers on the
_Financial News_.

* * * * *

ALONE IN LONDON!

I found her crouching in the lonely street;
Scarce six years' old she was: Her little feet
Were worn with endless pacing, up and down,
And round and round the cruel thoughtless town.
Her limbs were shrunk, and in her large round eyes
The light of coming madness seemed to rise.
No word she spoke, but sat, a prey to scorn,
Forsaken, friendless, feeble and forlorn.

And, as I pondered on her sorry tale,
One weird, unearthly, melancholy wail,
Broke from her lips:--a cry of agony,
Of hopeless, mad, despairing misery:
Then grim starvation on her little head
Laid his cold fingers, and she fell back dead!

I raised her tenderly with pitying arms,
And in a garden, far from Life's alarms,
I buried her, and left her all alone,
And wrote this epitaph upon the stone:--
"Peace to her ashes, but not peace to those,
Her erewhile friends, the cause of all her woes,
Who fondled and caressed her for a space,
Who loved to stroke her soft, confiding face,
Who gave her food and shelter from her birth,
Who joined in all her harmless youthful mirth;
But, when they went for holidays to roam,
Shut-to the door of what had been her home,
And thoughtless left to die upon the mat,
Their faithful but forgotten Tabby-cat."

* * * * *

[Illustration: "KNOCKED 'EM IN THE WEST-MIN-IS-TER ROAD."

"WHO'RE YER GOIN' TO MEET, BILL?
'AVE YER BOUGHT THE STREET, BILL?"]

* * * * *

[Illustration: A SATISFACTORY PATIENT.

_Family Doctor_. "WELL, MY LITTLE MAN, AND HOW ARE YOU THIS MORNING?"

_Young Hopeful_. "OH, NURSEY SAYS I'M _EVER SO MUCH NORMALLER
TO-DAY!_"]

* * * * *

ROBERT LOWE, VISCOUNT SHERBROOKE.

BORN, 1811. DIED, JULY 27, 1892.

Great fighter of lost causes, gone at last!
A meteoric course, by shade o'ercast
Long ere its close, was thine. A star that slips
At brightest into shadow of eclipse,
Leaves watchers waiting for its flaming forth
In a renewed refulgence. Wit and worth,
Satire and sense, courage and judgment keen,
Were thine. What flaw of weakness or of spleen,
What lack of patience or persistence, doomed
Thee to too early darkness? Seldom bloomed
So sudden-swift a flower of fame as thine,
When BRIGHT and GLADSTONE led the serried line
Of resolute reformers to the attack,
And dauntless DIZZY strove to hear them back.
Then rose "White-headed BOB," and foined and smote,
Setting his slashing steel against the throat
Of his old friends, and wrung from them applause.
The champion was valiant, though the cause
Was doomed to failure, and betrayal. Yes!
The subtle Chief thus aided in the press
By an ally so stalwart, turned and rent
The flag he fought for, and the valour spent
In its defence by thee, was wasted all.
Yet 'twas a sight when, back against the wall,
White-headed BOB would wield that flashing blade,
That BRIGHT scarce parried, and that GLADSTONE stayed
Only with utmost effort.
Yes, 'twill live
In record, that fierce fight, and radiance give
Through Time's dense mist, when lesser stars grow dim,
And though the untimely ermine silenced him,
The clear and caustic critic, though no more,
That rhetoric, like the Greek's, now "fulmined o'er"
Democracy's low flats, but silent sank
In those dull precincts dedicate to Rank;
Still its remembered echoes shall resound,
For he with honour, if not love, was crowned,
Whom those he served, and "slated," like to know,
Less as Lord SHERBROOKE than as "BOBBY LOWE."

* * * * *

LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.

_"The Yacht" Jersey._

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

You will see _par mon adresse_ that I am _encore une fois_ on my
travels! At present, in fact, the Channel Islands "claim me for their
own," as _Lord Marmion_ says in BULWER LYTTON. _Pardonnez-moi_, if I
occasionally lapse into French, for _vraiment il y a_ such a mixture
of tongues that we might almost rename them the Babel Islands--even
my noted Parisian accent is scarcely understood. _C'est étonnant_! and
were it not for EULALIE, I should _quelquefois_ be in a fix _agaçant_.

I told you in my last letter that I should be unable to brighten
Goodwood with the sunshine of my smile. But what is _Goodwood_
compared to racing at _Jersey_? Indeed, it was unfortunate for
Goodwood that the meetings clashed, and it should be avoided in
future.

It has been blowing hard for some few days, and we had rather a rough
passage, and though the yacht was not a wreck, _I_ was I am afraid,
in spite of the compliment paid me by Mr. SPOOPENDYKE K. SIDNEY, the
well-known American Four Millionnaire, who said he thought me "a real
smart sailor!"--and he was very near the truth, too, for the salt
water got in my eyes and they _did_ smart; but I resolutely declined
to go "below," and hung on to "the shrouds," I think they called
them--a most unpleasantly suggestive name, when you are dreading a
watery grave every moment. However, we got to our "moorings" at last
(as _Othello_ would call them), and having chartered the inevitable
"sharry-bang" started for the course.

By the way, _en passant_ (I have not dropped into French for a long
time), what a strange thing it is, that the moment you land at one of
these islands you are immediately advised to proceed to another.

I was told at Guernsey that I must on no account miss seeing "Sark."
so I didn't--but was careful to observe it from a distance--for
really, in these days of eruptions one doesn't know what might happen
on such a volcanic-looking island!--and besides, I _always_ carry
a pocket "Ætna" in my dressing-bag, so that I can have a flare-up
whenever I like. But let me see, where was I? Oh, yes! sharry-banging
out to the races at Jersey. Well, really now, judging from some
of the lovely toilettes worn by the Jersey "Daughters of Eve" (an
old-established journalistic expression, and to my mind, most idiotic
and insulting--we are _not_ all tempting!)--they are in front of a
good many of their Main-land sisters!--and the Hospitality--(always
a capital H, I believe)--shown by the 1st South Lancashire Regiment
is not to be beaten anywhere! The Lawn was well patronised, and the
enthusiasm was tremendous--seven events--_all_ over two miles, and
_two_ over hurdles, where _one_ came down! What more _could_ you
want--together with a glorious day, "and all the fun _for_ the Fair!"

The great event of the day was "Her Majesty's Cup," for three years'
old and upwards--(_one_ went _downwards_)--and it was won, for the
--th time in succession by _Jersey Lily_ (I won't tell the exact
number of times, as it is rude to hint at a lady's age)--amid a
scene of excitement almost as big as the Eclipse at Sandown!--she
was "followed home"--(racing expression--patented)--by _Lady
Westhill_ and _Lady Steephill_--so you see we were quite among the
_haut-ton_--though some of us had never heard of these aristocratic
thorough-breds before!

And so the Jersey Goodwood is once more over!--and we have again from
the springy turf of the Solent--(a most insecure footing)--caught in
the flush of the sunlight the gleaming white sails of the vessels on
the Goodwood Downs!--(this _may_ sound a little wrong--but I prefer it
to using a more stereotyped and matter-of-fact description).

As to the racing of next week--I have not the faintest idea _where_ it
is, _what_ it is, or _why_ it is!--but such trifles do not disturb me,
and I will proceed to my usual prophetic utterance on the event of the
week!

Yours devotedly, LADY GAY.

THE BANK HOLIDAY STAKES SELECTION.

In the sweet month of August no longer I choose,
By the river or seaside to tarry!
Preferring, in depths of the country to lose
All chance of encounter with "'ARRY!"

* * * * *

"MINIME!"--The other day the SPEAKER admitted that he couldn't
remember the Latin for "Yes." What a lot of time, trouble, and money
our own countrymen would be spared could they only occasionally forget
that there is such a word as "Yes" in English! How many marriages,
which have ended in misery, would never have come off but for this
mischievous monosyllable! But to continue this is to be Hamletising,
and to consider too curiously. For the SPEAKER to own it, stamps him
as the genuine article, a Candid PEEL.

* * * * *

[Illustration: TROP DE ZÈLE.

_Clerical Customer_. "I WANT TO BUY A NICE DIAMOND BROOCH FOR MY
BETTER HALF."

_Over-anxious Shopkeeper_. "CERTAINLY, SIR. WE HAVE JUST THE VERY
THING. WE CAN ACCOMMODATE YOU ALSO FOR YOUR OTHER HALF, IF YOU WISH."
[_They did not trade._]

* * * * *

THE WAIL OF A PESSIMIST POET.

O lift me out of this weary world,
And put me on a tree,
For life is all noughts
And crosses, or thoughts
That are busy for brawl and spree!

For where is the man would strike the lyre,
Or spurn with his foot the thief,
Or melt all day,
In a Midsummer way,
At the sight of repentant grief?

No! Lift me up to a leafy bough,
Where my feet may play in the breeze,
If my hot head there
Still singe my hair,
My heels may be ready to freeze!

* * * * *

MINOR MISERIES.

NO. II.--THE WINGED HAT.

My hat, my hat--away it flew--
The Strand was damp, the wind blew strong--
My tall silk hat, so bright and new;
Ye Bishops, tell me was it wrong
That, in that moment's agony,
My language, like my hat, flew free?

Away in swift pursuit I dashed,
The hat went scudding fast before;
By Busmen mocked, by Hansoms splashed,
The more I ran, it flew the more.
While boys screeched forth, in chorus vile,
"I'll lay the toff don't catch 'is tile."

On, on--at last it seemed to tire
Of pavements and pursuing feet.
It soared, then settled in the mire,
Full in the middle of the street,
A mud-stained, shattered relic--not
The bright new hat I bought from SCOTT.

Now was my time; I rushed--but no--
Fate ever mocks an ardent man;
Even as I rushed, unwieldy, slow,
Bore down a ponderous Pickford-Van,
And under two broad wheels crushed flat
My loved but suicidal hat.

Have hats got souls, and can they hate?
Are street-boys higher than the brute?
Avails it to discuss of fate,
Free-will, fore-knowledge absolute?
Nay, why of all created things
Should new silk hats be made with wings?

I know not. Wherefore, oh ye powers,
Speed me to some deserted land,
Where blow no winds and fall no showers,
Far from the street-boys and the Strand.
There all unfriended let me dwell,
A hatless hermit in a cell.

* * * * *

THE CYCLE-RIDING DUSTMAN.

A VERY NEW SONG TO A VERY OLD TUNE.

AIR--"_THE LITERARY DUSTMAN_."

["A resolution on the Agenda of the Greenwich Board of Works
runs as follows:--'That, in order to enable the foreman of the
dustmen in the Parish of St. Paul, Deptford, to get about that
parish with more expedition, and so superintend the work of
the men under his control to greater advantage than is now
possible, a tricycle be obtained for his use, at a cost not
exceeding £21 1s. 6d.'" _Daily Chronicle_.]

BUMBLE will ope his eyes, egad,
In hutter consternation.
He'd think as soon of a park-prad
For covies in my station.
Our Board o' Works knows wot is wot,
And has a feller-feeling.
About the parish must I trot?
No, hang it! I'll go Wheeling!

_CHORUS_.

Out o' the road! The highway clear!
OSMOND's the Cyclist's fust man;
And I, by co-in-side-ance clear,
Am the fust Cycling Dustman!
The happy foreman Dustman!
The Cycle-riding Dustman!
Yes, by a co-in-side-ance queer,
I'm the fust Cycling Dustman!

Old fogies to the papers write,
Grumbling about their dust, Sirs.
They says we're scarce and imperlite,
Unless we're well tipped fust, Sirs.
When I wheels round on my machine,
Like ZIMMERMAN on hisn,
If we don't keep their dustbins clean,
Wy, pop me into prison!

_CHORUS_.

Their refuse-pails we'll promptly clear,
When on the wheels I'm fust man;
And even sour old maids shall cheer
The Cycle-riding Dustman! &c.

Cycles for Dust-hos! Arter that,
It's Hosborne to my hattic
That Dusty BOB of the flap 'at
Will turn haristocratic.
BUMBLE, old buck, I cannot tell
'Ow bloomin' proud I feel, man,
Old Shanks's mare I once knew well,
But now I'm turned swell Wheelman.

_CHORUS_.

Good Greenwich Board o' Works! Hurroo!
Elated? Ain't I just, man!
Show the Big D! 'Twill bring to you
The Cycle-riding Dustman! &c.

* * * * *

[Illustration: SOME UPS AND DOWNS OF THE GENERAL ELECTION.

* * * * *

[Illustration: "BUMBLE BARNARDO; OR, THE BUZZY B."

"I feel almost compelled to concur in the widely-known dictum of the
redoubtable Mr. Bumble."--_Extract from Letter of Dr. Barnardo to the
"Times."_

* * * * *

JUST LIKE JUSTICE.

(_NOTES ON THE NEXT CASE._)

_Commencement of the Case._--I am an enthusiast, and I am jotting down
on this sheet of paper the story of my last exploit. A few days since
I saw a dear little fellow in long clothes deserted by its mother,
and took quite an interest in it. The next I hear of the sweet little
boy is that he had been caught up by Dr. MARCELLUS and carried to
his Home! Shall I permit this? No, from the view I had of the mother
before she deserted the little lad (who, by the way, was called PITT
WELLINGTON, after two statesmen recently deceased), I imagine she must
have been a Reformed Revivalist of the New Connexion. PITT WELLINGTON
shall be brought up as a Reformed Revivalist of the New Connexion.
(_Signed_) MARY HEAVISIDES, _Spinster and Landowner_.

_Written Seven Years later._--I have found this document amongst the
late Miss HEAVISIDES' papers. It is common knowledge that she took
proceedings against Dr. MARCELLUS to produce PITT WELLINGTON. At the
time of her death she had not succeeded. However, there is a fair sum
mentioned in her will to carry her point. I drew the document myself
at her dictation, and made it safe for the profession. There ought to
be some nice pickings before "it is all over but the shouting," as my
ancient client, the late Lord DASHOVER, used to observe. (_Signed_)
RICHARD ROE, _Solicitor to the late_ Miss MARY HEAVISIDES.

_Added Four Years after._--This case of PITT WELLINGTON and Dr.
MARCELLUS is a troublesome matter; however, as trustee under the
will I suppose I have no option, at least that is the opinion of Mr.
RICHARD ROE. We are seeking to get Dr. MARCELLUS before the Court.
After delays from various reasons the matter is now practically
settled. Is PITT WELLINGTON to be brought up as a Reformed Revivalist
of the New Connexion, or is he not? Well, we shall know soon.
(_Signed_) JAMES BROWN, _Trustee and Executor under the Will of Miss_
MARY HEAVISIDES.

_Added Five Years later._--A great joke. Just found this paper in poor
old Uncle JIM's strong box. How that case about PITT WELLINGTON did
worry him! Five years ago, and still at the first stage! Nothing much
could be done as Dr. MARCELLUS had taken PITT WELLINGTON out of the
country. (_Signed_) TOM BOY, _Nephew to the late_ JAMES BROWN.

_Added Two Years later._--This paper commenced seriously and treated
with levity by the last writer has fallen into our hands. As we find
the note of one of our partners we add to it. The case of _Brown_ v.
_Marcellus_ is still before the Court. The second Judge had to have
the whole matter explained to him anew. It is a pity that there is not
a law forcing occupants of the Bench to hear their own cases before
they are allowed to retire. But that is beside the question. As to
_Brown_ v. _Marcellus_, we got the defendant before the Court and Mr.
Justice ROBINSON has issued a writ of _habeas corpus_. We shall
now have PITT WELLINGTON before us to see if he should be made a
Reformed Revivalist of the New Connexion or not. By the way, as these
proceedings were commenced some years ago, he must be becoming a fine
boy by now! (_Signed_) JOHN DOE, _Junior Partner of the firm of_ ROE,
SONS, DOE, TOMPKINS AND DOE.

_Written after Another Year._--Strange to find this paper full of
notes. Well I may as well continue them, and put them back in the
bundle from which I have taken them out. The bundle will tell its
own story. It is full of summonses, copies of affidavits, draft
instructions, and I know not what. It came out of the box marked
_Brown_ v. _Marcellus_. That's been a nice case. Fifteen years of it,
and we are still waiting our turn in the list of the Court of Appeal.
Not that we haven't been there before. Oh yes; we argued whether we
had any right to take the matter before them. Strong Bar. Two Law
Officers of the Crown on one side, and the Ex-Attorney and the
Ex-Solicitor on the other. By the way, how the infant must be getting
on! He must have taken to moustaches and a beard by this time!
(_Signed_) BOBBY BINKS, _Clerk to Messrs._ ROE, SONS, DOE, TOMPKINS,
DOE, SONS AND MARVEL.

_Written a Year later._--This is really a most interesting find. So
the cause of _Brown_ v. _Marcellus_ was commenced many many years ago!
I know it had the reputation of being pretty ancient, but had no idea
it was so old. Fancy, that I should write on the same page under the
signature of my grandfather? Well, old Dr. MARCELLUS stood to his
guns, and declared that we had no right to move in the matter at all.
We were only a trustee under a Will, and it was not our matter. Then
we ran through the Courts, Divisional, Appeal, right into the House of
Lords. And the worthy Doctor won! However, BROWN's heir was a bit of
a sportsman, and made him a Ward in Chancery. Just could do it, PITT
WELLINGTON only in his twentieth year. That has put us right, Should
go on straight now. (_Signed_) LUKE ROE, _Junior Partner of_ ROE,
SONS, DOE, TOMPKINS, DOE AND ROE.

[Illustration: Quite a Pleasant Time.]

_Written after an indefinite Period._--This is a most useful
memorandum, as it gives an idea of what has been done hitherto. Our
firm seems to have wisely kept the action open by paying the term-fee.
As our late respected client's heir has for a son a young Barrister
not in very large practice, I am not surprised that we are requested
to continue the action. Of course, the son of our late respected
client's heir, is to be briefed. Well, I dare say we shall be able to
do something. Have perhaps quite a pleasant time of it. At any rate,
we have made a move by taking out a summons before the Chief Clerk.
(_Signed_) JAMES TOMPKINS, _Surviving Partner of Messrs._ ROE & Co.

_Written Three Years after the last Entry._--I am very glad I
insisted upon looking through the papers when I accepted the brief in
_Brown_ v. _Marcellus_. This paper is fairly accurate, save that it
describes me as "a Barrister not in very large practice." That is a
misstatement. I have been called only ten years, and yet last term I
made enough to pay for my share of our Chambers and half the salary of
our Clerk in common. Not in large practice, indeed! But to return to
_Brown_ v. _Marcellus_. We have done splendidly. We have been before
the Courts, and taken it again up to the Lords. The contention I have
held for the last three years is at last said to be correct. We have
a right to the body of PITT WELLINGTON, and when we have brought that
body before the Court, the Court will order it to be educated as a
Reformed Revivalist of the New Connexion. I consider the establishment
of this point a great forensic victory. (_Signed_) ARTHUR BRIEFLESS,
_Barrister-at Law_.

[Illustration: An Incomplete Suit.]

_Written Six Years later._--After five years' diligent search, we
have discovered the whereabouts of Mr. PITT WELLINGTON, according to
the instructions furnished us by Messrs. ROE, NEPHEWS, TOMPKINS AND
BACKGAMMON. We regret, however, to say that it will be impossible to
carry out the instructions of the Court to produce him, that he might
be brought up as a Reformed Revivalist of the New Connexion (a sect,
we fancy, that disappeared some twenty years ago), as the alleged
infant, the object of our search, died at the advanced age of
ninety-two during the past summer. We add this mem to this paper, as
the document seems to have reference to the matter we have in hand,
and which now must ever be an incomplete suit. (_Signed_) HAND AND
GLOVE. _Private Inquiry Agents._

_Final Endorsement._--Messrs. DIGGE AND DELVE having had the honour
to be commanded to make the necessary arrangements for the obsequies
of the late Mr. PITT WELLINGTON, beg to say (on this memorandum) that
they have not been fortunate enough to carry out the transaction to
their entire satisfaction. Messrs. D. AND D. were able to ascertain
the funeral rites of the Reformed Revivalists of the New Connexion
(very poor and inexpensive rites), but have found out that the late
Mr. PITT WELLINGTON himself placed a difficulty in their path.
Messrs. D. AND D. have ascertained with regret that the late Mr. PITT
WELLINGTON has been cremated, having died a Buddhist.

* * * * *

ADVICE GRATIS.--STARTING IN TRADE. (TO "FRUGALITY.")--You say that
you have opened a "general shop" for the sale, among other things, of
milk, paraffin oil, tobacco, sweetmeats, and fried fish, and you ask
whether it will be necessary to take out any kind of licence, and if
so, what?--Surely you are joking. If so, a game-licence might suit
you; or why not try the Examiner of Plays? If you are serious, it
seems to us no further licence is needed; you have taken enough
already.

* * * * *

"LES DEUX CHARLIES," i.e. the Common Serjeant (resigned) and the
Recorder. The one is "Not there at all," and the other is "HALL
there." (N.B.--Mem. to the Recorder, this is "a Short Sentence.")

* * * * *

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

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, August 6, 1892" ***

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