Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, December 3, 1892
Author: Various
Language: English
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PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 103.



December 3, 1892.



THE MAN WHO WOULD.

III.--THE MAN WHO WOULD GET ON.

"I dreamed," said the Scotch Professor, "that I was struggling for
dear life with a monstrous reptile, whose scaly coils wound about my
body, while the extremity of his own was lost in the distance. At last
I managed to shake myself free, and setting my foot on his neck, I
was preparing to cut his throat, when the animal looked up at me with
an appealing expression, and said, 'At least you might give me a
testimonial!'"

This professional nightmare (for the labours of a Scotch instructor
consist, to a great extent, in writing testimonials, or in evading
requests for them), suggested to one of his audience the history of
SAUNDERS MCGREGOR, the Man who would Get on. In boyhood, SAUNDERS
obtained an exhibition, or bursary, to the University of St. Mungo's.
This success implied no high degree of scholarship, for the benefice
was only open to persons of the surname of MCGREGOR, and the
Christian-name of SAUNDERS. The provident parents of our hero, having
accidentally become aware of this circumstance, had their offspring
christened SAUNDERS, and thus secured, from the very first, an opening
for the young man.

[Illustration]

At St. Mungo's, SAUNDERS was mainly notable for a generous view of
life, which enabled him to look on the goods of others as practically
common among Christians. A pipe of his own he somehow possessed,
but tobacco and lights he invariably borrowed, also golf-balls,
postage-stamps, railway fares, books, caps, gowns, and similar
trifles; while his nature was so social, that he invariably dropped in
to supper with one or other of his companions. The accident of being
left alone for a few moments in the study of our Examiner, where
SAUNDERS deftly possessed himself of a set of examination-papers,
enabled him to take his degree with an ease and brilliance which very
considerably astonished his instructors. By adroitly using his good
fortune, SAUNDERS accumulated a pile of most egregious testimonials,
and these he regarded as the mainspring of success in life. He had
early discovered in himself a singular capacity for drawing salaries,
and as he had unbounded conceit and unqualified ignorance, he
conceived himself to be fit for any post in life to which a salary is
attached. He had also really great gifts as a _crampon_, or hanger-on,
and neglected no opportunity, while he made many, of securing useful
acquaintances. Thus it was the custom of his college to elect,
at stated periods, a man of eminence as Rector. SAUNDERS at once
constituted himself secretary of a committee, and, without consulting
his associates, wrote invitations to eminent politicians, poets,
painters, actors, editors, clergymen, and other people much in the
public eye. In these effusions he poured forth the innocent enthusiasm
of his heart, expressing an admiration which might seem excessive to
all but its objects. They, with the guilelessness of mature age and
conscious merit, were touched by SAUNDERS'S expressions of esteem,
which they set down to hero-worship, and a fervent study of Mr.
CARLYLE'S works. Only one of the persons addressed, unluckily,
could be elected; but SAUNDERS added their responses to his pile
of testimonials, and frequently gave them good epistolary reason to
remember his existence and his devotion.

His earliest object was to become secretary to somebody or something,
the Prime Minister, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, the Society
for the Protection of Aborigines, or Ancient Monuments, or even as
Secretary to the Carlton Club, SAUNDERS felt he could do his talents
justice in any of these positions. If anything was to be had, SAUNDERS
was the boy to ask for it; nay more, to ask other people to ask.
Private Secretaryships to Ministers, or societies, or great Clubs,
are not invariably given to the first applicant who comes along, even
if he appeals to testimonials in the Junior Mathematical Class from
Professor MCGLASHAN of St. Mungo's. But SAUNDERS was not daunted. He
would write to one notable, informing him that his grandmother had
been at a parish school with the notable's great uncle--on which
ground of acquaintanceship he would ask that the notable should
at once get him a post as Secretary of a Geological Society, or as
Inspector of Manufactories, or of Salmon Fisheries, or to a Commission
on the Trade of Knife-grinding.

Another notable he would tell that he had once been pointed out
to him in a railway station, therefore he was emboldened to ask
his correspondent to ask his Publisher, to get at the Editor of
the _Times_, and recommend him, SAUNDERS, as Musical Critic,
or Sub-editor, or Society Reporter. Nor did SAUNDERS neglect
Professorships, and vacant Chairs. His testimonials went in for all
of them. He was equally ready and qualified to be Professor of Greek,
Metaphysics, Etruscan, Chemistry, or the Use of the Globes, while
Biblical criticism and Natural Religion, prompted his wildest
yearnings. Though ignorant of foreign languages, he was prepared to
be a correspondent anywhere, and though he was purely unlearned in all
matters, he proposed to edit Dictionaries and Encyclopædias, of course
with the assistance of a large and competent staff. His proofs of
capacity for a series of occupations that would have staggered a
CRICHTON, was always attested by his old College testimonials, for
SAUNDERS was of opinion that the courteous _obiter dictum_ of a
Professor was an Open Sesame to all the golden gates of the world.
Meanwhile, he supported existence by teaching the elements of the
classic languages, with which he had the most distant acquaintance, to
little boys, at a Day School. But one of these pupils came home, one
afternoon, in tears, having been beaten on the palms of the hands
with a leathern strap, in addition to the task of writing out the
verb [Greek: tuptô]. This punishment was inflicted because, in
accordance with SAUNDERS'S instructions, he had represented the
Cyclops of Euripides as "sweeping the stars with a rake." The
original words of the Athenian poet do not bear this remarkable
construction, so SAUNDERS was dismissed from the only work which he
had ever made even a pretence of doing. He has not the energy, nor
the lungs necessary for the profession of an agitator; he has not
the grammar required in a penny-a-liner, he cannot cut hair, and his
manners unfit him for the occupation of a shop-assistant, so that
little is left open to SAUNDERS but the industry of the Blackmailer.
The office of Secretary to a Missionary in a Leper settlement, on an
island of Tierra Del Fuego, is, however, vacant; and, if the many
important personages with whom SAUNDERS has corresponded will only
make a united effort, it is possible that the Man who would Get
on may at last be got off, and relieve society from the burden of
his solicitations. May the comparative failure in life of SAUNDERS
MCGREGOR act as a warning to those who think that they shall be
heard, by men, for their much asking!

P.S.--This does not apply to women. We have just been informed that
Mr. SAUNDERS MCGREGOR, M.A., is about to lead to the altar the only
and orphan daughter of the late ALISTER MCFUNGUS, Esq., of Castle
Fungus, Dreepdaily, N.B., the eminent introducer of remarkably
improved processes in the manufacture of Heel-ball.

       *       *       *       *       *

"ONE DOWN, T'OTHER COME ON!"--Mr. HORACE SEDGER has a _Prima Donna_
supply always on tap. After two of them have retired from the
principal part in _Incognita_, the lively Miss AIDA JENOURE--("'Aid
'em JENOURE,' she ought to be called," quoth Mr. WAGGSTAFF)--comes to
the rescue, and "on we goes again" with an excellent _danseuse_, too,
thoroughly in earnest, as her name implies, which sounds like Miss
Sin-cere and is written Miss ST. CYR.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE FIGHT FOR THE STANDARD.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A MERE DETAIL.

_Friend of the Family._ "WEEL, MRS. M'GLASGIE, AND HOW'S YOUR DAUGHTER
DOIN', THE ONE THAT WAS MARRIED A WHILE AGO?"

_Mrs. M'Glasgie._ "OH, VARRA WEEL, THANK YE, MR. BROWN, VARRA WEEL,
INDEED! SHE CANNA ABIDE HER MAN. BUT THEN, YE KEN, THERE'S AYE A
SOMETHING!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE FIGHT FOR THE STANDARD.

(_MODERN MONETARY VERSION._)

  'Twas the gallant Golden Knight downed his visor for the fight.
    All true champions delight in hard tussles.
  With his yellow Standard reared at his back, no foe he feared,
    And his gaze all comers queered,
            There at Brussels.

  Like _Sir Kenneth_, only more so, he expanded his fine torso.
    His Standard--bold he swore so--flying proudly,
  Still supreme should flow and flaunt, its defenders none should
          daunt.
    'Twas a very valiant vaunt.
            Shouted loudly.

  Now the Silver Knight had sworn--that the Standard so long borne
    By the Aureate One, in scorn irreducible
  Should not solitary wave. He'd squabosh that champion brave,
    Or would find a torrid grave--
            In some crucible!

  Such cremation he would dare if that Standard he might bear
    To the dust, and upraise there one more Silvery.
  For this Argent Knight, though pale, was right sure he could not
          fail,
    He was proud of his white mail,
            And his skill--very!

  So here, Gentles, you behold that brave Knight in mail of Gold,
    Sworn his Standard to uphold high and aureate;
  And that blusterous battle-bout, twixt those champions stern and
          stout,
    Will inspire, I have no doubt,
            Our next Laureate!

  Yank Knights-Errant may evince interest grave; that Indian Prince
    Will alternate swell and wince as they struggle;
  The young Scottish Knight BALFOUR (who looks callow more than dour)
    Hopes the Silver Knight may score,
            By some juggle.

  But in spite of Yank and Scot, and the Bimetallic lot,
    They who're fly to what is what, back the Gold 'un.
  And did _I_ bet--for fun--ere this Standard fight is done,
    I should plank my ten to one
            On the Old 'Un!

       *       *       *       *       *

SUN-SPOTS.

  Fog, haze, smoke or cloud, almost daily enshroud
    The Metropolis--place we should shun--
  And day after day the reports briefly say,
    "Bright sunshine at Westminster--none,"
            Yes, none!
  O Sol, not a ray; no, not one!

  _The Times_ says that lots, quite a fine group of spots,
    Are discernible now on the sun;
  Have these stopped heat or light, so that weather-wise write,
    "Bright sunshine at Westminster--none?"
            Yes, none!
  O Sol, what have you been and done?

  Have these sun-spots increased? We know London, at least,
    Is a spot unconnected with sun;
  All day long we burn gas, the report is, alas!
    "Bright sunshine at Westminster--none,"
            Yes, none!
  O Sol, you old son of a gun!

       *       *       *       *       *

LADY GAY'S SELECTION.

_Mount Street, Berkeley Square._

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

I am proud of being the "selection" referred to above, though, as a
matter of fact it was _I_ who "selected" GAY from the numerous sweet
young things submitted for my approval during the Season when I
was considered "_the_ parti"!--but on this point I maintain a noble
silence! In spite of the old Welsh proverb, "Oh, wad some Gay the
giftie gie us," &c. &c., I was a bit puzzled on reading GAY's letters,
at the similarity of names, but thought it only a coincidence, until
she was so upset by the one she read when abroad, that she confessed
everything, and asked my advice!--It's very strange how all these
clever women, when they get into a fix, apply for assistance to weak
"_man_!" eh? Now that flat-racing is over, we are "resting on our
oars" for a time--(that is literally true, for the country has been
mostly under water lately!)--but we shall shortly have a cut-in at
steeplechasing, when GAY will doubtless have some new experiences to
relate; meanwhile, allow me to subscribe myself--(I like to subscribe
to everything good)--Yours explanatorily,

(Lord) ARTHUR FLEETWOOD.

       *       *       *       *       *

ALL ROUND THE FAIR.

NO. III.

IN THE "FINE ART" EXHIBITION.

    _Rustic Art Patrons discovered applying their eyes to
    peepholes, through which a motley collection of coloured
    lithographs of the Crimean Campaign, faded stereoscopic-views,
    Scriptural engravings, and daubed woodcuts from the
    "Illustrated Police News," is arranged for their inspection._

_First Art Patron_ (_waiting for his turn at the first peephole_).
Look alive theer, GE-ARGE, ain't ye done squintin' at 'un yet?

_Ge-arge_ (_a local humorist_). 'Tis a rare old novelty, BEN, th'
latest from London, and naw mistake 'bout it!

_Ben_ (_with disappointment, as he succeeds to the peephole_). Why,
'tain't on'y ADAM an' EVE afoor th' Fall! that ain't so partickler
noo, as _I_ can see--Lar dear, they're a settin' nekked on a live
lion, and a nursin' o' rabbits! (_At the next hole_ ADAM _and_ EVE
_are represented "After the Fall," overwhelmed with confusion, while
the lion is stalking off scandalised, with a fine expression of lofty
moral indignation._) 'Ere they are _agen_! that theer lion thinks he's
played sofy to 'en long 'nough, seemin'ly!

_Ge-arge_ (_from a further peephole_). I say, BEN, 'ere's Mrs. PEARCEY
a murderin' Mrs. 'OGG down this 'un--we're a-gittin' _along_!

_Ben_ (_puzzled_). They must ha' skipped out a deal. I'm on'y at "CAIN
killin' ABEL!"

_Female Patron_ (_to Proprietor_). 'Ere, Master, I can't see nothen'
down 'ere--'tis all dark like!

_Proprietor._ Let _me_ 'ave a look! You shud put your 'ands so, each
side o' your eyes, and--(_He looks._) 'Um, it is _rayther_--but
what else do yer _expeck_? It's a "View o' Paris by Night," ain't
it--_that_'s all right!

OUTSIDE "PROFESSOR PUGMAN'S SPARRING SALOON."

_The Professor_ (_on a little platform, with a pair of Pupils_).
Now then, all you as are lovers o' the Noble and Manly Art o'
Self-Defence, step inside and see it illusterated in a scientific an'
fust-class manner! This (_introducing first Pupil, who rubs his nose
with dignity_) is 'OPPER of 'Olloway, the becoming nine-stun Champion.
This hother's BATTERS o' Bermondsey, open to fight any lad in England
at eight-stun four. Is there anyone among you willing to 'ave a round
or two with either on 'em fur a drink an' admission free?--if so,
now's his time to step forward--there's no waiting, mind yer?

_Joe_ (_to Melia_). I b'lieve as 'ow I could tackle the little 'un--I
used to box above a bit.

_Melia._ Don't ye now, JOE; you'll on'y go and git yourself 'urt or
summat!

_Joe._ _I_ shan't git 'urt. 'Ere, Master, I'm game fur to put on the
gloves wi' _'im_.

_Prof._ Git inside with yer then! (_To Crowd._) Now then for the Great
Glove Contest--Just goin' inside to begin--Mind, there's _no_ waitin'!

_Joe._ 'Ere, MELIA, come along in, and look arter my 'at an' coat.

_Melia._ I dussen't, JOE! I can't abear to see no fightin', I'll bide
'ere till ye come out.

    [_JOE enters the tent, followed by the Pupils and a few
    Connoisseurs._

_Prof._ (_looking into the interior of tent through a slit in the
canvas_). Theer they are! Oh my, what a pictur'! They're puttin' on
the gloves now, make 'aste if you're goin' in! (_The Crowd hesitate._)
'Ere! (_To the Champions._) Step outside once more and show
yourselves!

    [_The Champions appear, re-mount the platform, and are
    introduced all over again._

_Melia_ (_intercepting her swain_). JOE, 'ow are ye gittin' on? You
don't look none the worse so fur; is it neelly over?

_Joe_ (_gruffly_). Neelly over! why, we ain't _begun_ yet--nor likely
to wi' all this bloomin' palaverin'!

_Melia._ I do wish 'twas over--Kip a good 'art, JOE; don't let 'un go
knockin' ye about!

_Joe_ (_with a slight decrease of confidence_). Theer's a way to talk!
I doan't reckon as 'ow he'll _kill_ me, not in three rounds, I doan't,
but if I'd a-know'd there'd be all this messin' about fust, I'd a--

    [_He goes inside gloomily._

[Illustration: "Theer they are! Oh my, what a pictur'!"]

INSIDE THE SPARRING SALOON.

    _The Spectators are waiting patiently around the ropes; the
    Professor is still on the platform, expatiating on the coming
    contest. JOE has found a friend whom he has entrusted with
    his hat and coat._

_Joe_ (_to the Friend_). Jest kip a heye on these 'ere, will ye!

    [_He hands him a huge pair of highlows._

_Prof._ (_calling in_). Fur the larst time, come outside and show
yerselves, all on yer!

_The Friend._ You got to go out agin, JOE, better putt on yer coat an'
'at, not to ketch cold!

_Joe._ Ah, and I'll 'ave to 'ave they bo-oots on agen, too. (_He gets
into his things in a great flurry, and hastens outside._) 'Tis enough
to take th' 'art out of a man, thet 'tis!

    [_More exhortations from Proprietor, until the last Spectator
    has been induced to enter the Saloon, whereupon the Champions
    return, and the hangings at the entrance are finally drawn._

_Prof._ (_acting as Timekeeper_). Now then, all ready? (_To JOE._)
In you go--What are yer waitin' for? Never mind about takin' orf
yer boots! Gentlemen, BATTERS o' Bermondsey is agoin' to fight three
rounds with a volunteer, one o' your own men. Whatever you see between
'em (_solemnly_), pass no remarks! Time!

    [_JOE and "BATTERS o' Bermondsey" walk round each other
    and make a fumbling attempt to shake hands, after which JOE,
    while preparing to deliver a blow with extreme caution and
    deliberation, is surprised by a smart smack on his cheek,
    which makes him stagger; he recovers himself and prances down
    on BATTERS with a windmill action._

_Batters_ (_limping into his corner_). 'Ere, I say, ole man--moind my
tows--foight at yer right _end_!

_Joe_ (_apologetically_). I didn't mean nothing unfair-like--I
_warnted_ fur to take off them 'ere boots--but I warn't let!

_Batters._ I'll _let_ ye--fur 'taint no corpet slippers as you've got
on, ole feller, I tell yer strite!

    [_JOE removes the offending boots._

_Spectators_ (_during the second round, which is fought with more
spirit than science on JOE'S part_). Ah, JOE ain't no match for
'un--he let un _'ave_ it then, didn't he? My word! but it's "Go 'ome
an' tell yer Mother, an' ax yer Uncle 'ow ye be" with 'un, pretty near
every time!

_Prof._ (_with affected rapture_). Oh dear! Oh lor! _What_ doins!
Time! you two, afore ye _kill_ one another! Now, Gentlemen, a good
clap, to encourage 'em. I think you'll agree as the Volunteer is
showin' you good sport; and, if you think him deservin' of a drink,
p'raps one o' you will oblige with the loan of a 'at, which he'll now
take round. (_The hat is procured, and offered to_ JOE, _who, however,
prefers that the collection should be made by deputy._) Don't _forgit_
'im, Gentlemen! (_Coppers pour into the hat, and the last round is
fought;_ B. of B. _ducking_ JOE'S _blows with great agility, and
planting his own freely in various parts of_ JOE'S _anatomy._)

_Spectators._ 'E'll be knocked out in a minnit, 'e will! Don't sim to
git near 'un no 'ow. Look a' _that_--and _thar_ agin! Ah, JOE got
one in that time--but the tother's the better man--'e don't touch 'un
without _'ittin'_ of 'un--d'ye see? Time! Ah, and time it _was_ time,
too--fur _'im_!

_Prof._ (_to JOE, as he sits blinking, and blowing his nose with
vigour_). That was a jolly good fight--tho' rough. You've some notion
o' sparrin'--we'd soon make a boxer o' _you_. 'Ere's _your_ share of
the collection--sevenpence ap'ny. We give _you_ the extry ap'ny, bein'
a stranger. Would you feel inclined to fight six rounds, later on
like, with another of our lads, fur ten bob, now?

_Joe_ (_making a futile attempt to untie his glove with his teeth_).
Much obliged, Master, but I've 'ad about enough spree a'ready to do me
fur a bit.

_Prof._ Are there any two friends in 'ere as 'ud like to fight a round
or two?

    [_Two Rustics step forward valiantly--a tall dark man and a
    little red-haired one--and, after the usual preliminaries,
    square up at a safe distance._

_Spectators_ (_to the tall man_). Why don't ye step _up_ to 'un, JIM?
Use yer right 'and a bit! (_To the short one._) Let out on 'un, TOM!

    [_TOM, thus exhorted, lands an unexpected blow on JIM'S eye._

_Jim_ (_suddenly ducking under the rope in great dudgeon_). 'Twas a
cowardly blow! I didn' stan' up to be 'it in th' fa-ace i' that way;
I've 'ad enoof of it!

_Tom._ Come back and fight it out! (_Soothingly._) Why, ye come at me
like a thunderin' great _lion_, ye did!

_Jim_ (_putting on his hat and coat, sulkily_). Loi-on or noan,
I ain't gawin' to hev naw moor on it, I tell 'ee. [_Groans from_
Spectators.

_Prof._ Don't be 'ard on 'im, Gents; it ain't 'is fault if he's on'y
bin used to box with bolsters, and as he ain't goin' to finish 'is
rounds, it's all over for this time, and I 'ope you're all satisfied
with what you've seen.

_A Malcontent._ _I_ ain't. I carl it a bloomin' swindle. I come 'ere
to see some _sparrin'_, _I_ did!

_Prof._ Step inside the ropes then, and _I'll_ soon show yer some!
(_This invitation is hastily declined._) Well, then, go outside quiet,
d'jear me? or else you'll do it upside down, like ole JOHN BROWN, in
'arf a sec., I can tell yer!

    [_The Malcontent departs meekly, and reserves any further
    observations until he is out of hearing._

_Melia_ (_to JOE_). Lor, I wish now I'd been there to see ye; I do
'ope ye weren't too _rough_ with 'un, though, JOE. What shall we do
next?--'ave a turn on the swings, or the swishback circus, or the
giddy-go-round--or what? (JOE _shakes his head._) _Why_ won't ye, JOE?

_Joe_ (_driven to candour_). Why?--'cause it 'ud be throwin' away
money, seein' I've got 'em all goin' on inside o' me at once as 'tis,
if ye _want_ to know! I feel a deal more like settin' down quiet a
bit, I do, if I cud find a place.

_Melia_ (_with an inspiration_). Then let's go and 'ave our likenesses
took!

    [_She cannot understand why JOE should be so needlessly
    incensed at so innocent and opportune a suggestion._

       *       *       *       *       *

THE "BEST EVIDENCE"--HOW NOT TO GET IT.

Have been summoned to attend as a Witness in the trial of the six
roughs who first drugged and then savagely ill-treated a foolishly
convivial citizen in Whitechapel. Don't know if it was wise of me
to tell the Police that I could identify the men. Since my evidence
before the Magistrate came out, I have had thirty-seven threatening
letters, my front windows have been broken several times over, and a
valuable dog poisoned. Still, evidently a patriotic duty to "assist
the course of Justice;" and no doubt I shall be compensated.

So this is the "Central Criminal Court," is it? Should hardly have
believed it possible. Outside mean and dirty.

Interior, meaner and much dirtier. Speak to Usher. Usher most
polite. Glad, that at any rate, they _do_ know how to treat important
Witnesses. Am assured I shall have a seat "close to the Judge."
Produce my witness-summons. Demeanour of Usher suddenly changes. I
shall have to go to the "Witnesses' Waiting-room in the old Court."
Where's that? _He_ doesn't know. I'd better ask a Policeman. It now
flashes across me that Usher mistook me for a wealthy, and probably
generous spectator, and thought when I was fumbling in my pocket for
my summons, I was looking for half-a-crown for _him_! Depressing.

Policeman leaves me in a dark, draughty passage, with a bench on each
side. "But where is the waiting-room?" I ask an attendant. "_This_ is
the waiting-room," he replies. More like the Black Hole. _Was_ it wise
of me to give information to the Police?

_Two Days later._--They crammed _forty_ Witnesses into that passage!
No seats for half of them. We had one chair, and Usher took it away
"as a lady wanted it in Court." Lady no doubt a spectator--did _she_
hunt in her pocket for half-a-crown? Anyhow, after two days in the
passage, I have just given my evidence in Court, with fearful cold
on my lungs, owing to the draught. Very hoarse. Ordered by Judge,
sternly, to "speak up." Conscious that I looked a wretched object.
Jury regarded me with evident suspicion. Severely cross-examined.
Mentioned to Judge about my windows being smashed, &c.; could I
receive anything for it? "Oh, dear no," replied the Judge; "we never
reward Witnesses." Amusement in Court--at my expense. In fact, the
course of Justice generally seems to be altogether at my expense.
Home in a cab and a fever. Find ten more threatening letters, and an
infernal machine under area-steps. Go to bed. Doctor says I am in
for pneumonia and bronchitis, he thinks. Tells me I am thoroughly
run down, and asks me, "What I've been doing to reduce myself to this
state?" I reply that, "I have been assisting the course of Justice."
Doctor shrugs his shoulders, and I hear him distinctly mutter, "More
fool you!" I agree with Doctor, cordially. Am quite certain now that
it _was_ unwise to tell Police that I could identify those criminals.
If this is the way in which Witnesses are treated, let Justice in
future assist itself!

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

My Baronite has been reading _Mona Maclean, Medical Student_.
(BLACKWOOD.) "It is," he tells me, "a Novel with a purpose--no
recommendation for a novel, more especially when the purpose selected
is that of demonstrating the indispensability of women-doctors."
Happily GRAHAM TRAVERS, as the author (being evidently a woman)
calls herself, is lured from her fell design. There is a chapter or
two of talk among the girls in the dissecting-room and the chemical
laboratory, with much about the "spheno-maxillary fossa," the
"dorsalis pedis," and the general whereabouts of "Scarpa's triangle."
But these can be skipped, and the reader may get into the company of
_Mona Maclean_ when she is less erudite, and more womanly. When not
dissecting the "plantar arch," _Mona_ is a bright, fearless, clever
girl, with a breezy manner, refreshing to all admitted to her company.
The episode of her shopkeeping experience is admirably told, and
affords the author abundant and varied opportunity of exercising her
gift of drawing character. _Mona Maclean_ is, apparently, a first
effort at novel-writing. The workmanship improves up to the end of the
third volume; and Miss TRAVERS' next book will be better still.

[Illustration: Affection's Offering--from Alfred the Second to Dear
George the first.]

To Mr. J. FISHER UNWIN comes the happy thought of issuing, in
a neatly-packed box, the whole twenty volumes of the Pseudonym
Library--and a very acceptable Christmas-Box it will make. The
volumes, with their odd, oblong shape, are delightful to hold; the
type is good, and the excellence of the literary matter is remarkably
well kept up over the already long series. Mr. UNWIN promises fresh
volumes, introducing to the British public Finnish and Danish authors,
or Danish first, and the others to Finnish.

See how these Poets love one another! How touching is the dedication
of ALFRED AUSTIN'S latest volume to GEORGE MEREDITH! May both live
long and prosper, is the hearty wish of their friend,

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE ROYAL ROAD TO COMFORT.--A DREAM.

The rival Steamboats were on the alert. It was a misty night, and it
was a difficult matter to make out the lights of Calais Harbour.

"We shall catch him yet," said the Captain of the Blue Vessel.

"He will not escape us," observed the C.O. of the Red.

Suddenly the Blue started at full steam ahead, and was lost to sight
in Calais harbour. She was quickly followed by the Red, moving with
equal expedition.

The vessels reached the quay nearly at the same time. Then there was
confusion and sounds of military music. Evidently the Illustrious
Personage had embarked. Then the mist cleared away.

"He is safe on board," said the Captain of the Blue Vessel, and his
Mate indulged in a short laugh of triumph.

"It does not matter," observed the Commanding Officer of the Red; "the
Blue may have his person, but _we_ have his luggage!"

And then the cheers were renewed again and again, and the Illustrious
Personage came to the conclusion that English enterprise was not
without its disadvantages!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: WHAT OUR ARTIST HAS TO PUT UP WITH.

HE TRAVELS ALL OVER ENGLAND IN SEARCH OF A BACKGROUND FOR HIS "_VIVIAN
BEGUILING MERLIN IN THE FOREST OF BROCELIANDE_,"--A HOPELESS QUEST!]

       *       *       *       *       *

BOGEY OR BENEFACTOR?

_Timid Ratepayer loquitur:--_

  O lor! O dear! What have we here? What  a nondescript, huge
          NID-NODDY!
  None know, I'm sure, what _I_ have to endure. It's enough to
          frighten a body!
  They are always up to some queer new game, and a giving me some
          fresh master;
  But this one is a _crux_ from the sole of his foot to the crown of
          his comical castor.

  He looks as big as all out-of-doors, and e'en BUMBLE was hardly as
          bumptious.
  He'd make my London a Paradise, which is a prospect that's
          perfectly scrumptious.
  But oh! he _is_ big, with the funniest rig; a Titan who, if he
          _should_ tumble,
  Might squelch me as flat as an opera-hat, and make me regret old
          BUMBLE.

  Noodledom ruled me for many long years; this means, I am told, a
          new Era;
  But bad as a Booby may be as a Boss, what about a colossal Chimæra?
  I don't say he's that, but with body of goat, dragon's tail, and
          the head of a lion,
  A creature were hardly more "mixed" than _this_ monster, whose
          rule for the time I must try on.

  A complex, conglomerate, Jack-of-all-Trades! Well, I trust he'll
          be master of some of them!
  _Largo al factotum_! He's game for all tasks, and--I wish I was
          sure what would come of them.
  Most representative? Palpable that! And his plans most sublime (so
          he says) are;
  But he looks just as motley a nondescript as the image of
          Nebuchadnezzar.

  The elephant who can root up a huge oak, or handle a needle or
          pin, is
  Less marvellous much, and it may be, of course, that the folks who
          distrust him are ninnies.
  I hope so, I'm sure. There are evils to cure, and of room for
          improvement there's plenty;
  And all must admit that, whatever his faults, he cannot be called
          _far niente_.

  He _does_ look a bit of a Bogey, but then he _may_ prove just a
          big Benefactor,
  And if he should work on the cheap, kill Corruption, and kick out
          the knavish Contractor,
  Without piling Pelion on Ossa (of rates) on my back, till my legs
          with the "tottle" limp,
  I _shall_ "learn to love him" as Giant Beneficent, not a big,
          blundering Bottle-Imp!

       *       *       *       *       *

OPERA-GOER'S DIARY.--_Otello_ (the Grand Otello Company, Limited) was
the feature last week. GIANINI a stout _Otello_, much and Moor. MELBA
a charming _Desdemona_, but not a great part for her. DUFRICHE as
_Iago_, good, but not good enough for _him_. Sir DRURIOLANUS gives
_Carmen_ at Windsor Castle, before the QUEEN! Aha! Where now is
LAGO Factotum and His Special Patronaged Royal Box at the Olympic?
DRURIOLANUS Victor, with all the honours.

       *       *       *       *       *

AT A RINK.

  Round and round, and to and fro
            At a rink,
  Pretty girls, with cheeks that glow
            Rosy pink;
  Graceful, gleeful, gliding, go,
            Whilst they link
  Arms together, like the flow
            Past its brink
  Of a river's eddy--so
            Duffers think
  They can glide. See one start slow,
            Shyly shrink,
  Fearful lest his end be woe,
            Sheepish slink,
  Skates on unaccustomed toe
            Strangely clink,
  Hot and thirsty he will grow,
            Long for drink;
  All around amusement show,
            Laugh and wink,
  But they look as black as crow,
            Or as ink,
  If he fall against them. Oh,
            In a twink
  On the floor, not soft but low,
            See him sink!
  Whilst he murmurs gently, "Blow
            This old rink!"

       *       *       *       *       *

LOGICAL AND ENGINE-IOUS.--Why object (though we do) to Advertisements
of all sorts along our Railway lines? Surely, wherever the Locomotive
goes, there is the very place for puffing.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: BOGEY OR BENEFACTOR?

L.C.C. "HA, HA! YOU MUST LEARN TO LOVE ME!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: QUITE UNPARDONABLE.

_Assistant_ (_in his most insinuating manner_). "IN YOUR CASE, MADAM,
I SHOULD CERTAINLY CONSIDER _FAST_ COLOURS MOST SUITABLE." RESULT!]

       *       *       *       *       *

CONVERSATIONAL HINTS FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS.

THE SMOKING-ROOM.

(_WITH WHICH IS INCORPORATED "ANECDOTES."_)

Let us imagine, if you please, that the toils and trampings of the day
are over. You are staying at a comfortable country-house with friends
whom you like. You have had a good day at your host's pheasants
and his rabbits. Your shooting has been fairly accurate, not
ostentatiously brilliant, but on the whole satisfactory. You have
followed out the hints given in my previous Chapters, and are
consequently looked upon as a pleasant fellow, with plenty to say for
himself. After tea, in the drawing-room, you have had an hour or two
for the writing of letters, which you have of course not written, for
the reading of the morning papers from London which you have skimmed
with a faint interest, and for the forty or eighty or one hundred
and twenty winks in an armchair in front of the fire, which are by
no means the least pleasant and comforting incident in the day's
programme. You have dressed for dinner in good time; you have tied
your white tie successfully "in once;" you have taken in a charming
girl (ROSE LARKING, let us say) to dinner. The dinner itself has been
good, the drawing-room interlude after dinner has been pleasantly
varied with music, and the ladies have, with the tact for which they
are sometimes distinguished, retired early to bed-rooms, where it is
believed they spend hours in the combing of their beautiful hair, and
the interchange of gossip. You are in high spirits. You think, indeed
you are sure (and again, on thinking it well over, not quite so sure),
that the adorable ROSE looked kindly upon you as she said good-night,
and allowed her pretty little hand to linger in your own while you
assured her that to-morrow you would get for her the pinion-feather
of a woodcock, or die in the attempt. You are now arrayed in your
smoking-coat (the black with the red silk-facings), and your velvet
slippers with your initials worked in gold--a birthday present from
your sister. All the rest are, each after his own fashion, similarly
attired, and the whole male party is gathered together in the
smoking-room. There you sit and smoke and chat until the witching hour
of night, when everybody yawns and grave men, as well as gay, go up to
their beds.

Now, since you are an unassuming youngster, and anxious to learn,
you ask me probably, how you are to bear yourself in this important
assembly, what you are to speak about, and how? The chief thing, I
answer, is _not to be a bore_. It is so easy _not_ to be a bore if
only you give a little thought to it. Nobody wants to be a bore. I
cannot imagine any man consciously incurring the execration of his
fellow-men. And yet there exist innumerable bores scattered through
the length and breadth of our happy country, and carrying on their
dismal business with an almost malignant persistency. Longwindedness,
pomposity, the exaggeration of petty trivialities, the irresistible
desire to magnify one's own wretched little achievements, to pose as
the little hero of insignificant adventures, and to relate them to the
whole world in every dull detail, regardless of the right of other men
to get an occasional word in edgewise--these are the true marks of
the genuine bore. He must know that you take no interest in him or his
story. Even if you did, his manner of telling it would flatten you,
yet he fascinates you with that glassy stare, that self-conscious
and self-admiring smirk, and distils his tale into your ears at the
very moment when you are burning to talk over old College-days with
CHALMERS, or to discuss an article in the _Field_ with SHABRACK.

I remember once finding myself, by some freak of mocking destiny, in
a house in which _two_ bores had established fortified camps. On the
first night, we all became so dazed with intolerable dulness, that
our powers of resistance faded away to the vanishing point. Both bores
sallied out from their ramparts, laid our little possessions waste,
and led, each his tale of captives back with him, gagged, bound, and
incapable of struggle.

  So next day, when the accustomed train
  Of things grew round our sense again,

we agreed together, those of us, I mean, who had suffered on the
previous night, that something must be done. What it was to be
we could not at first decide. We should have preferred "something
lingering, with boiling oil in it," but at last we decided on the
brilliant suggestion of SHABRACK, who was of the party, that we should
endeavour by some means or other to bring the two bores, as it were,
face to face in a kind of boring-competition in the smoking-room
that very night, to engage them in warfare against one another
and ourselves to sit by and watch them mutually extinguishing one
another; a result that, we were certain, could not fail to be brought
about, owing to the deadly nature of the weapons with which each was
provided. Both the bores, I may observe, shot execrably during the
day. In the evening, after a short preliminary skirmish, from which
SHABRACK the hussar extricated us with but little loss, that which we
desired came to pass. It was a terrible spectacle. In a moment both
these magnificent animals, their bristles erect, and all their tusks
flashing fiercely in the lamp-light, were locked in the death-grapple.
Every detail of the memorable struggle is indelibly burnt into my
brain. Even at this distance of time, I can remember how we all looked
on, silent, awestruck, fascinated, as the dreadful fight proceeded
to its inevitable close. For the benefit of others, let me attempt to
describe it in the appropriate language of the Ring.

GREAT FIGHT BETWEEN THE KENTISH PROSER AND THE HAMPSHIRE DULLARD.

_Round I._--Both men advanced, confident, but cautious. After sparring
for an opening, the Proser landed lightly on the jaw with,--"When
the Duke of DASHBURY did me the honour to ask me to his Grace's
noble deer-forest." He ducked to avoid the return, but the Hampshire
Champion would not be denied, and placed two heavy fish-stories fair
in the bread-basket. The Proser swung round a vicious right-hander
anecdote about a stag shot at 250 yards, but the blow fell short,
and he was fairly staggered by two in succession ("the tree-climbing
rabbit," and "the Marquis of DULLFIELD'S gaiters"), delivered straight
on the mouth. First blood for the Dullard. After some hard exchanges
they closed, and fell, the Dullard underneath.

_Round II._--Both blowing a good deal. The Proser put up his Dukes,
and let fly with both of them, one after another, at the Dullard's
conk, drawing claret profusely. Nothing daunted, the Dullard watched
his opportunity, and delivered a first-class Royal Prince on the
Proser's right eye, half closing that optic. The men now closed, but
broke away again almost directly. Some smart fibbing, in which neither
could claim an advantage, ensued. The round was brought to a close by
some rapid exchanges, after which the Proser went down. Betting 6 to 4
on the Dullard.

_Round III., and last._--Proser's right peeper badly swollen, the
Dullard gory, and a bit groggy, but still smiling. Proser opened with
a ricochet, which did great execution, but was countered heavily when
he attempted to repeat the trick, the Dullard all but knocking him
off his legs with a fifty-pound salmon. After some slight exchanges
they began a hammer-and-tongs game, in which Proser scored heavily.
Dullard, however, pulled himself together for a final rush. They met
in the middle of the ring, and both fell heavily. As neither was able
to rise, the fight was drawn. Both men were heavily damaged, and were
carried away with their jaws broken.

There you have the story. The actual result was that these two
ponderous bores all but did one another to death. So exhausted
were they by the terrible conflict, that our comfort was not again
disturbed by them during this particular visit. We were lucky, though
at first we scarcely saw it, in getting two evenly matched ironclad
bores together. If we had had only one, the matter would have been far
more difficult.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE SERPENT'S TOOTH.

"DIDN'T I SEND 'IM TO HETON AN' HOXFORD? DIDN'T I SEND 'IM INTO THE
HARMY, ALONG O' SOME O' THE BIGGEST NOBS IN ALL HENGLAND, WITH AN
ALLOWANCE FIT FOR A YOUNG HEARL? AND WHAT'S THE HUPSHOT OF IT ALL?
WHY, HE GIVES DINNERS TO DOOKS AND ROYAL 'IGHNESSES, AN' DON'T EVEN
HARSK 'IS PORE OLD FATHER TO MEET 'EM. 'IGHNESSES, INDEED! I COULD BUY
UP THE 'OLE BLESSED LOT! AND, _WHAT'S MORE, I WOULDN'T MIND TELLIN'
'EM SO TO THEIR FACES, FOR TWO PINS!--AH! JUST AS SOON AS LOOK AT
'EM--AND 'E KNOWS IT!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

UNDECIDED.

  Goosey, Goose, Uganda,
    With whom will you wander,
  With the English, with the French?
    Or with King MWANGA?

       *       *       *       *       *

ADVICE GRATIS (_by a Bill Poster_).--"Invest all your savings in
hoardings."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE COMPLIMENT OF COIN.

(_AN EXTRACT FROM MR. PUNCH'S PURELY IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS._)

    SCENE--_Interior of a Palace._ Emperor _and_ Empress
    _discovered discussing the former's tour in foreign parts._

_Emperor_ (_finishing a good story_). So after I had made a hearty
meal off the bread-and-milk, I gave the old woman a note for five
thousand thalers, and told her to buy a three-sous portrait of
myself so that she might see the Sovereign that she had saved from
starvation. Ha! ha! ha! Wasn't it amusing?

_Empress_ (_smiling_). Very, dear; but wasn't it a little expensive?
Surely you could have got the bread-and-milk for a smaller sum?

_Emperor._ Of course I could! But then, don't you see, it made me
popular. It's in all the papers, and reads splendidly!

_Empress._ Yes, of course, dear. By the way, I found this volume
(_producing book bound in velvet with real gold clasps_) in your
overcoat. May I peep into it?

_Emperor_ (_doubtfully_). I don't think you will find it particularly
interesting. I have just jotted down my petty cash disbursements.

_Empress_ (_opening book and glancing at contents_). Dear me! Why the
total amounts to £15,000! I see it's put in English money.

_Emperor._ Yes, it saves trouble. When I am travelling I get rather
confused with all coinage save that of Mother's Fatherland.

_Empress._ But surely £15,000 is a lot to expend upon extras?

_Emperor._ Depends on the view you take of things. I had a lot of
things to buy.

_Empress._ But surely _this_ must be wrong? Shoeblack fifty guineas!

_Emperor_ (_lightly_). No, I think that's all right. You see, the
fellow, after he had cleaned my boots, suddenly recognised me, called
me Sire, and sang the "_Wacht am Rhein_." I couldn't, after that, give
him less.

_Empress._ Well, you know best, dear; but I should have thought you
could have got your boots cleaned for rather less!

_Emperor._ Possibly; but I should have lost the story. And you know it
reads so well.

_Empress._ And here's another rather big item. £800 for a London
cabman!

_Emperor._ I consider _that_ the cheapest item in the lot. He wanted
more!

_Empress._ And here are several items of seventy pounds apiece. What
were _they_ for?

_Emperor._ Oh, nothing in particular. Little girl picked up my
handkerchief, and a little boy asked me for a kite. Was obliged to
give them each a bundle of tenners. It would have been so mean if I
had given them less. But there, I told you you wouldn't find the book
at all interesting. If you will pass it to me, I will lock it up.

_Empress._ Oh, certainly, dear. (_Gives up volume._) And now, darling,
I am going to ask you a favour. You never saw such a pet of a
coronet as they have at Von ----'s. Now I want you to buy it for me
particularly.

_Emperor_ (_embarrassed_). Certainly, dear--but you know, we are not
too well off.

_Empress._ Oh, but it is simply charming. Rubies round the edge, and
a cross of brilliants and emeralds. And, really, _so_ cheap. They only
want £100,000 for it!

_Emperor._ Very nice indeed; but just at this moment it would be a
little inconvenient to produce so large a sum.

_Empress._ Large sum! Why, the rubies alone are worth all the money.

_Emperor._ Yes, I know, dear. And now I must hurry away; duty, my
love, comes before pleasure. See you soon.

    [_Exit hurriedly, to attend a review. In the meanwhile,
    Coronet remains in the jeweller's shop-window. Curtain_.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE FESTIVE SEASON. A SCOTCH NIGHT.]

       *       *       *       *       *

AN EVENING FROM HOME.

There used to appear daily--and it may be appearing daily now, for
aught I know, only, speaking on oath, I haven't lately noticed it--a
question addressed by Everybody in General, or by Nobody in Particular
to Everybody Else, which took this form: "Where shall we dine to-day?"
I forget what the answer was, but, as a rule, the domesticated man,
with a good cook in his own kitchen, could answer it offhand by
saying to himself, "'_Where_ shall we dine to-day?' Why, at home, of
course--where better?--and catch me moving out afterwards." But, if he
were contemplating the unpleasant certainty of having post-prandially
to leave his hearth and home in order to visit some theatre, opera, or
concert, then it might occur to him that he could do the thing well,
and give his party a novel treat, if, in French fashion, he took them
somewhere to dine, previous to doing their play. Thus it occurred to
Yours truly, Y TI-BULLUS BIBULUS, a day or two ago, when, dressed in
his classical evening Togaryii in a _Currus Pulcher_ (with a _Cursor_
alongside anticipating _denarii_, and risking the sharp rebuke of a
probable _Cursor_ inside the vehicle) he was passing the Oxford Music
Hall, and a brightly decorated Restauration caught his observant eye.
Was it new, or was it a Restauration restored? Its name, in large
letters, "FRASCATI." This seemed at once to lend itself to a familiar
jingle, and I found myself humming,--

  Oh, did you never hear of Frascati?
  'Tis not far from Rome, eh my hearty?
    The place looks so fine,
    I will there go and dine,
  And I'll bring with me all of my party!

[Illustration: "Our Hamp-phitryon."]

Horatian inspiration! I like to find out a new dining-place. Years
ago, by the merest accident sailing north, I discovered the Holborn,
and, since then, how many have not blessed the Columbus Holbornius?
I do not ask how many _have_ done so. "That is another story." Since
then, the taste for dining domestically away from home has come
considerably into fashion. The Ladies like it, and the Law allows it.
(Quotation from _Merchant of Venice_ adapted to occasion--Restaurant
edition--_Portia_ for two.) It is a cheerful change, it assists the
circulation of coin, it is an aid to the solution of the problems of
Bimetallism, it rejuvenesces the home-fire-sider, it developes ideas,
restores the balance of temper; and, if only the dinner be good,
everybody goes away delighted,--guests are satisfied, the host is
pleased, the waiter smiles on the tipper, the tipper on the manager,
the manager on the proprietor, and all is Joy and Junketing! Judge my
surprise, when to me, TIBULLUS, entering Frascati, and as _Cicerone_,
informing my friends (all eager and hungry, and therefore unwilling
to dispute) how Frascati was the ancient Tusculum, a well-known face
appears welcoming us with smiles. It is Signor HAMPI, better known as
Mr. HAMP of Holborn. "Salve!" quoth I, as TIBULLUS. "The same to you,
Sir," responds HAMPIUS. "Now," said my friend WAGSTAFFIUS, without
whom no party is complete, "Now we shall be Hamp-ly satisfied."

The arrangement of the Frascati is a novelty; it is all so open and,
though there are plenty of staffers about, not in the least stuffy.
It would take a considerable crowd to overcrowd the place and to
demoralise the troops of well-disciplined waiters, all under the
eye of the ever-vigilant generalissimo of the forces, who in his
white waist-coat, black tie, and frock-coat of most decided cut and
uncompromising character--there is much in a frock-coat and something
too in the wearing of it--is here, there, and everywhere, and only
waiting till the last moment, and the right one, when the banquet
is ended, to give the word of command, "Charge!"--and the charge
(decidedly moderate and previously named in the _carte du jour_) is
received with satisfaction and defrayed with delight.

I have only one suggestion to make, and that affects the music not the
meal. Let the music be adapted to the dishes; and not only should the
course of time be considered as it progresses, but also the time of
the course. For example,--who that has an ear for music can swallow
oysters deliberately and sedately while the band is playing a mad
galop? Let there be something very slow and _pianissimo_ for the _hors
d'oeuvres_: something gentle and soothing for the oysters; there
can be an indication of heartiness in the melody that ushers in the
soup, as though giving it a warm welcome. There should be a mincing
minuet-like movement for the _entrées_, a sparkling air for the
champagne, and something robust for the joint. A sporting tune for the
game: sweet melody for the sweets, and a grand and grateful Chorale--a
kind of thanksgiving service as it were--when the last crumb and the
last bit of cheese have been swept away.

[Illustration: "Up I came with my little lot!!"]

After this to The Pavilion, in plenty of time to hear the ubiquitous
ALBERT CHEVALIER singing his celebrated coster-songs. Signor COSTA
was a well-known name in the musical world some years ago; CHEVALIER
Coster is about the best-known now. These ditties are uncommonly
telling; the music is so catching and so really good. Then his singing
of the little Nipper "on'y so 'igh, that's all," has in it that touch
of nature which makes you drop the silent tear and pretend you are
blowing your nose. Capital entertainment at the "Pav." Ingress and
egress is not difficult, and the place doesn't become inconveniently
hot. The sweet singer with the poetic name of HERBERT CAMPBELL is very
funny; which indeed he would be, even if he never opened his mouth.
Such a low comedian's "mug!"

But of all the pretty things to be seen in its perfection here (I have
seen it elsewhere, and was not so struck by it) is the Skirt Dance. It
is "real elegant," graceful, and picturesque. What a change has come
over the Music-hall entertainment since--since--"since even _I_ was
a boy!" says the Acting Manager, Mr. EDWARD SWANBOROUGH,--evergreen
in the true sense of the word. A vast improvement, no doubt of it.
But, with such good amusement for the public, why on earth do the
Music-Halls want to do "Dramatic Sketches"? And, if they do them,
then, judging by what I saw at the "Pav," I am fain to ask again,
why, in the name of SHAKSPEARE, and the musical glasses, should the
theatres object?

Does anyone seriously think that _Othello_ or _King Lear_ is wanted
at the Music-Halls, or that SHERIDAN'S _School for Scandal_ wouldn't
empty any Music-Hall of its patrons? It is the "variety" which is
the charm of the Music-hall show, and if any one part of the variety
show is a bit too long--longer let us say, than the time it takes to
smoke one-eighth of a fair-sized cigar and to drink half a glass of
something according to taste--then the audience will pretty plainly
express what _they_ understand by Variety, what _they_ have paid to
see, and what they mean to have for their money; and if they don't get
it there, they'll go somewhere else where it will be given them. The
summing-up, Gentlemen, is that, if you want a pleasant evening, you
can't do better than dine at Frascati and afterwards patronise the
"Pav." Such is the opinion of

Y TI-BULLUS BIB.

       *       *       *       *       *

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





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