Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, July 23, 1892
Author: Various
Language: English
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PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 103.



July 23, 1892.



[Illustration: TOO CLEVER BY HALF.

"AND WHERE DID YOU LEARN TO SPEAK ENGLISH SO WELL?"

"FROM LADY JENKINSON'S CHILDREN, MADAME. I CAME OVER FROM SWITZERLAND
TO TEACH THEM FRENCH AND GERMAN!"

"AND _DID_ THEY LEARN FRENCH AND GERMAN?"

"NO, MADAME, NOT A WORD!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

TO A SUMMER FLOWER.

  Oh, lovely flower sent from afar,
    Like sunlight to this world of ours,
  What art thou but a golden star,
    A priceless gem amongst the flowers?

  Alas, all earthly things must die,
    Thou, too, fair yellow flower must fade,
  Thou wilt not charm an Artist's eye,
    Upon the breast of some fair maid!

  Ah, no, thine is a nobler fate,
    Unlike the lily or the rose,
  Thou passest to a higher state
    When in sad death thy petals close:

  For then thine outward form, grown pale
    Is changed to what, at first scarce seen,
  Is still thyself, so fair, so frail,
    A little fruit of tender green!

  When quite matured, how very choice
    Thy juicy flavour; who can then
  Sing all thy worth with mortal voice,
    Or write thy praise with mortal pen.

  There, take it gently from the ground,
    O costermonger, to thy barrow,
  And shout, with loud discordant sound,
    The praise of Vegetable Marrow!

       *       *       *       *       *

ROE, BLOATER'S-ROE.

  Faintly it wakes at the even chime,
  The appetite long past its prime.
  The supper-room at the Club looks dim.
  What shall I "peck" for an epicure's whim?
  Roe, Bloater's Roe! That's the brief repast
  To tickle the palate, to break the fast!

  They may prate of the pleasures of "early purl,"
  Of the frizzled rasher's seductive curl,
  But, when I fear I can munch no more,
  When the thought of banquets becomes a bore,
  Roe, Bloater's Roe, upon toast they cast,
  And nausea's fled, and repletion's past!

  Yes Bloater's Roe--upon toast. Ah, boon!
  That stayeth satiety, late or soon.
  Best of _bonnes bouches_, that all seasons fits!
  The tenderest tickler of all tit-bits!
  Roe, Bloater's Roe! O _chef_, grill fast,
  And prepare my palate its pet repast!

       *       *       *       *       *

ONE FORM OF A "SHELLEY MEMORIAL."--Awful indigestion the morning after
a Lobster Supper.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM DAY TO DAY.

(_A STUDY IN POLITICAL JOURNALISM, FROM SOME OF THE MORNING PAPERS._)

NO. I.

To-day, the first pollings of the General Election take place, and
the electors will be called upon to decide one of the most momentous
issues that have ever been submitted to the judgment of the country.
For ourselves, we cannot doubt for a moment as to what the verdict
will be. It is impossible that a policy of empty promises, backed
by mere misrepresentation, should prevail against a glorious record
of administrative, legislative, and financial success. Careful
calculations have convinced us that those who now hold the reins of
office will return to power with a largely increased majority, to
continue their beneficent work. The country recognises by this time
that anything short of that would mean disaster to the commonwealth.
Even with a small majority, the forces of disorder would be able to
work untold mischief. Such a result, however, is not within the bounds
of possibility, seeing that the Election will be fought purely and
simply on the Irish question, which has been placed fully before the
electorate in all its bearings. Our organisation is perfect, and our
triumph assured.

NO. II. (_THREE DAYS LATER_.)

We are constrained to admit that, so far, the result of the Elections
has not come up to the confident anticipations of our Party. Seats
have been lost that ought to have been retained. On the other hand,
we have failed to win seats that we had a right to count upon as
certainties. It is not easy to apportion the responsibility for
failure. Over-confidence and a consequent want of energy may have had
something to do with it; but the chief reason is to be found in the
disgracefully defective organisation of the Party. The story is an old
one. We have ourselves deemed it our duty to lay this aspect of the
case before the Leaders of the Party, but our repeated warnings have
been unheeded, and the necessary consequences have followed. Our
opponents, however, have not much to congratulate themselves upon. The
Irish question has been kept studiously in the back-ground, and the
results, so far as they have gone, only prove conclusively that there
is no diminution whatever in the dislike with which the majority of
the electorate regard the proposals of the party of disorder. We are
far from saying that even now we shall lose the Election. Everything
may yet be retrieved. But, even should the result be numerically
favourable to the Opposition, they will be powerless for mischief with
the small majority which is all they are likely to get.

NO. III. (_A WEEK LATER_.)

The Elections are now nearing an end, and it is possible to summarise
the results. It is not surprising that our opponents should be
reduced to the lowest depths of despair. They counted with the utmost
certainty on a majority of two hundred. But, as matters stand, it
is out of the question that their preponderance should exceed fifty.
Where are now the confident boastings with which they inaugurated the
campaign? They have confused the judgment of the electors with every
kind of side-issue. Misrepresentations have been sown broadcast, and
have, in too many instances, succeeded. But the great heart of the
country is still sound. Votes must be weighed as well as counted, and
it is safe to assume that, with a paltry and heterogeneous majority
of merely fifty, the advocates of revolution will be reduced to
impotence, even if they can succeed in forming a Government at all.
The result is one on which our Party may well congratulate themselves.
They have worked hard, and the solid fruit of their efforts is now
within their reach. We may safely say that the Irish policy of our
opponents has received its death-blow.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "THERE HE BLOWS!"

(_The German Emperor has gone Whaling in the North Seas._)]

  "There he blows! There he goes!" Like a Titan in throes,
  With his wallopping tail, and his wave-churning nose,
    The spouting Cetacean Colossus!
  Eh? Harpoon that Monster! The thought makes one pale,
  With one thundering thwack of that thumping big tail,
    To the skies in small splinters he'd toss us!

  Rolling in foaming wild billows, ice-laden
  He goes, like the "boisterous sea" (_vide_ HADYN!)
    "Upheaved from the deep," swift, tremendous,
  Leviathan sports on the far-foaming wave.
  If _he_ runs athwart us, what power shall save,
    From the doom to which promptly he'd send us?

  His "soundings," or "diggings," are many and deep;
  But would that his "three-hundred fathoms" he'd keep,
    Below in the ocean's cold quiet.
  But no, not at all; he's not _that_ sort of whale!
  He must breathe, he must blow, he must roar, till the gale
    Is charged with the sound of his riot.

  Leviathan loves the wild turmoil of strife,
  And lashing the billows to him is true life;
    Behold how he buffets and scourges them!
  Chase him? The Captain (though also a Kaiser),
  Might think that his course to avoid him were wiser,
    Until sheer necessity urges them.

  And yet whales _are_ beaten--by narwhals and men,
  And other mere pigmies. 'Tis said, now and then,
    E'en sword-fish can compass their ruin,
  By stabbing together--in _Cassius's_ way
  With _Cæsar_. Leviathan, dead, is a prey
    To dog-fish, and sea-birds, or Bruin.

  There he blows! There he goes! Would an amateur Whaler,
  Like WILHELM, that fine blend of Statesman and Sailor,
    Incline to the chase and the capture
  Of such a huge, wandering, wallopping whale,
  To whom "Troubling the waters" with blow-holes and tail
    Seems a source of such riotous rapture?

       *       *       *       *       *

DUST AND HASHES.

SIR,--When I first took my present house, I was advised to get a
Sanitary Dust-bin, instead of the old brick one which existed in my
back-yard. One of the blessings predicted for my Sanitary Dust-bin,
was, that it was "easily removable." I find this to be the case. It
has already been removed by some area-sneak, and as I have got rid
of the old brick dust-bin, the Vestry threaten to prosecute me for
creating a nuisance, because my dust is now placed in a corner under
my front steps. What am I to do?

AGGRIEVED HOUSEHOLDER.

SIR,--I find that the law recently passed against tips to Dustmen is
quite unknown--at all events, to the Dustmen themselves. My servants,
I find, go on freely bribing these functionaries, to remove bones and
vegetable refuse. Their rate of tipping, as far as I can make out,
is about a halfpenny per bone. If I were now to enforce the law and
forbid tips, I foresee that the Dustcarts would have pressing business
elsewhere, and would visit me about once a month. Then would follow
a _régime_ of "big, big, D.s"--in the window--which would be
intolerable. I prefer tipping to typhoid.

Yours long sufferingly, VICTIM OF THE VESTRIES.

SIR,--The Vestry is _quite right_ to insist on every house burning up
its own odds and ends. The _true_ domestic motto is--"Every kitchen
its own crematorium." I do this _habitually_, out of _public spirit_.
It is true that a sickening odour permeates the house for an hour
or two of every day, created by the combustion of dinner remnants;
also that most of my family suffer from bad sore throats, which they
attribute to this cause. What of that? The _truly good Citizen_ will
prefer to poison himself rather than his neighbours.

A CLERKENWELL CATO.

SIR,--I recently purchased _Dodger's Digest of Dustbin Law_, and
recommend it to the perusal of every householder. In the case of _The
Vestry of Shoreditch_ v. _Grimes_, Lord Justice SLUSH remarks--"The
Vestry complains that the Defendant's bin was improperly covered;
that, in fact, it was not under coverture. To this the Defendant
replies that his bin was void _ab initio_, as there was nothing in it.
Then the question arises whether the Defendant's Cook was justified
in tipping the Dustman into the empty bin, considering that the
Legislature has distinctly forbidden tips of all kinds to Dustmen. I
am of opinion that the Cook was the Defendant's agent, and that the
rule of _qui facit per alium facit per se_ applies here. The Cook's
proceeding was undoubtedly tortious; it was not a criminal action,
though it certainly cannot be called a civil one. I agree with
my brother CHIPPY that the _ratio decidendi_ must be, whether the
Dustman, in coming to clean out an empty dust-bin, had a _malus
animus_ or no. On all these points I hold that judgment must be
for the Vestry." Your readers will see the importance of such clear
_obiter dicta_.

Yours, AMATEUR LAWYER.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: PROOF POSITIVE.

"I CAN'T THINK HOW THAT IMPRESSION GOT ABOUT, LADY GWENDOLINE. I SPEND
HALF MY TIME IN CONTRADICTING IT. OUR NEW MEMBER IS BY NO MEANS A
SMALL MAN. I'VE BEEN ON THE PLATFORM WITH HIM OFTEN, AND HE STANDS
FULLY AS TALL AS I DO!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN.

[Illustration]

  Soon on Piccadilly's pavement solitude once more will reign;
  Soon the Park will be a desert, for the Season's on the wane;
  In Belgravia's lordly mansions nearly all the blinds are down,
  For "the Family is gone, Sir,"--not a soul is left in Town.

  South to Switzerland they hurry, to explore each snowy fell;
  North to Scotland's moors and forests, where the grouse and
          red-deer dwell;
  Carlsbad, Homburg, Trouville, Norway, soon their jaded eyes will
          view;
  For Society is speeding "to fresh woods and pastures new."

  Everyone is gone or going,--everyone, that is, one knows,--
  And the "Great Elections'" Season fast is drawing to its close.
  Never surely was a poorer; such dull dinners, so few balls,
  Such an Epsom, such an Ascot, or so many empty stalls.

  Gone the Season, with its dances, with its concerts and its _fêtes_,
  With its weddings and divorces, with its dinners and debates;
  Gone are all its vapid pleasures, all its easy charities,
  Gone its _causes célèbres_ and scandals, gone its tears and
          tragedies.

  Weary legislators envy still more weary _chaperons_;--
  Much they know the truth who deem them of Society the drones;--
  All the maidens are _ennuyées_, vow they "can't do anymore,"
  All the gilded youth are yawning--everything's a horrid bore.

  Hearken then, ye youths and maidens, favoured Children of the West,
  East and South and North are children, who are hungering for rest.
  They have never seen the country, never heard the streamlet flow:
  London pavements, London darkness, London squalor,--these they know.

  Not for them to range the moorland, or to climb the mountain-side;
  They must linger on in London, till the grave their sorrows hide.
  From year's end to dreary year's end they must pace the noisy
          street.
  Do you hear the ceaseless echo of their weary, weary feet?

  Just one day without your wine, Sir! Madam, just one ribbon less,
  And one wearied child in London from afar your name will bless.
  Think, ere now you seek your boredom in fresh pleasure-draughts to
          drown,
  Three or four benighted Millions still are left behind in Town!

       *       *       *       *       *

GENERAL OPINION ON APPOINTMENT OF NEW CHAIRMAN OF THE BOARD OF INLAND
REVENUE.--"MILNER's Safe."

       *       *       *       *       *

CANVASSERS AND CANVASSED.

(_AN ELECTIONEERING REMINISCENCE._)

    SCENE--_A narrow South London Street of two-storeyed houses,
    with a Rag-and-Bone Shop at one end and a Public House at the
    other. Time, about four o'clock on a warm Saturday afternoon.
    Enter Mr. CARLTON-JERMYN, a middle-aged gentleman, in
    faultless get-up, who, in a moment of weakness, has undertaken
    to canvass the district for his friend, the Conservative
    Candidate._

_Mr. C.-J._ (_to himself, as he regards his surroundings with dismay,
and tries to arrange his canvassing-cards_). I suppose this _is_
Little Anna Maria Street? I didn't understand at the Committee Rooms
that it was _quite_ such a--however, I must do my best for dear old
TILNEY. Who's the first man I must see and "use my best endeavours to
persuade him into promising his vote?" Ah, Mr. J. SPLURGE, No. 1. (_He
picks his way delicately along, attempting to make out the numbers
on the doors, which are all thrown back; female residents watch him
from doorsteps and windows with amused interest._) No. 5; No. 3; the
next is No. 1. (_It is; but the entrance is blocked by a small infant
with a very dirty face, who is slung in a baby-chair between the
door-posts._) Very embarrassing, really! Can't ask such a child
as this if Mr. SPLURGE is at home! I'll knock. (_Stretches for the
knocker across the child, who, misinterpreting his intentions, sets up
a howl._) My good child, I assure you ... for Heaven's sake, don't!...
I--I wonder whether I ought to _kiss_ it--some fellows would!

[Illustration: "I wonder whether I ought to _kiss_ it--some fellows
would!"]

_Female Voice_ (_from side-window_). You leave that pore child alone,
will yer--or I'll come out and _tork_ to you, d'y'ear?

_Mr. C.-J._ (_to himself_). That's _Mrs._ SPLURGE! I think, perhaps,
I'd better _not_ wait. (_With an inspiration._) I'll leave a card.
(_Drops one of his visiting-cards in the child's lap--to its exceeding
terror--and retreats._) I'm _afraid_ I haven't produced a very
favourable impression, so far, I'll try No. 2, across the street. (_He
approaches a doorstep upon which two stout and dishevelled Women are
seated._) Er--I _beg_ your pardon, but could you kindly inform me if
Mr.--er--(_consulting card_)--GUFFIN is at home?

_First Woman_ (_with sarcasm_). Now _do_ yer think he's nothink else
to do but set indoors in a arm-cheer all day?

_Mr. C.-J._ I--I thought--I hoped--that, it being Saturday, I might
be--er--fortunate enough--have I the pleasure of addressing Mrs.
GUFFIN? [_Both Women are convulsed with uncontrollable mirth._

_Second Woman_ (_on recovering--calling down the passage_). 'Ere, Mrs.
GUFFIN, yer wanted. 'Ere's a gentleman come to see yer!

_Mrs. Guffin_ (_appearing from the basement, and standing at the
further end of the passage_). Well, what does _he_ want?

_Mr. C.-J._ (_raising his hat, and sending his voice down the passage
to her_). I ventured to call, Mrs. GUFFIN, in the hope of finding your
husband at home, and ascertaining his--er--political sympathies, in
view of the Election.

_Mrs. Guffin._ Oh, it's about the voting, is it? Are you for a
Conservatory?

_Mr. C.-J._ For a--? Oh, to be sure, yes. I came to ask Mr. GUFFIN to
support Sir TILNEY BRUTON, the Conservative Candidate. Perhaps if I
called again, I might--?

_Mrs. Guffin_ (_in a matter-of-fact tone_). I don't expect my 'usband
'ome till late, and then he'll be drunk.

_Mr. C.-J._ Just so. But I trust, Mrs. GUFFIN, your husband feels the
importance of maintaining the Union--?

_Mrs. Guffin._ He _did_ belong, I know, but I think his branch broke
up, or somethink.

_Mr. C.-J._ (_puzzled_). Ah, but I mean in--er--politics--I hope he is
opposed to granting Home Rule to Ireland?

_Mrs. G._ He don't tell _me_ nothing about his politics, but I've
'eard him say he was Radikil.

_Mr. C.-J._ (_diplomatically, as Mrs. G. slowly edges towards
the door_). Might I suggest, Mrs. GUFFIN, that you should use
the--er--influence which every woman possesses, to--er--induce your
husband--(_here he suddenly becomes aware that Mrs. GUFFIN has a
very pronounced black eye_); but perhaps I ought not to ask you.

_Mrs. G._ Well, _my_ opinion is--if you want someone to tork over my
'usband to your side, you'd better come and do it yourself; because
_I_ ain't goin' to. So there! [_She retires to the basement again._

_First Dish. W._ If you toffs can't do nothink better than come 'ere
makin' mischief between a man and his wife, you'd better stop at 'ome,
_that_ you 'ad!

_Mr. C.-J._ (_to himself_). Upon my word, I believe she's right! But I
never noticed the poor woman's eye before. I wish I could find one
of the _men_ in, and have a talk with him--much more satisfactory!
(_Knocks at No. 4_) Is Mr. BULCHER at home?

_Mr. B._ (_lurching out of a room on the ground-floor_). Qui' c'rect,
Guv'nor--thash me!

_Mr. C.-J._ I wanted to see you, Mr. BULCHER, to ask if we may count
upon your support for the Conservative Candidate at the Election. I
need hardly point out to you the--er--vital importance of--

_Mr. B._ (_slouching against the passage-wall, opposite Mr. C.-J._).
'Old on, Guv'nor, lemme ashk you thish question, 'fore we go any
furrer. Wharriwanter 'ear from _you_ is--'Ow 'm I goin' git little bit
o' good outer thesh 'lections for myshelf. You unnershtand me? What
good Conshervative gov'men' ever done er workin' man--d' yer shee?
Why, never--not in all their born daysh! You take that shtraight from
me.

_Mr. C.-J._ But surely--er--it was a Conservative Government that gave
you Free Education?

_Mr. B._ (_knowingly_). No, it washn't, Guv'nor. There yer wrong,
d'yer see? It wash er _Radicals_ give us Free Education. And whatsh
Free Education er me? Wouldn' say Thank yer f'rall Free Education in
er wide world!

_Mr. C.-J._ (_recognising that he must strike a stronger chord_).
Well, at all events you will admit that, during the last six years,
you have been--er--peaceful and prosperous?

_Mr. B._ (_beerily_). I've been peashful and proshperous ever sinsh
I was born. No, look 'ere, Guv'nr, I'm torken to you 'bout wharri
_unnershtan'_, d'yer see? Jes' you lishen er wharri'm goin tell you.
(_Here he punctuates his remarks by poking Mr. C.-J.'s ribs with
a clay pipe._) Workin' man's gettin' more and more 'telligent every
day--he'sh qui' capable lookin' after his own interests. What
he wantch is, One Man One Vote, Redooced Hours o' Labour, 'Ome
Rule for London, an' the Control of the Liquor Traffic! What did
Misher GLADSHTONE say? Educated and 'telligent clashes alwaysh
_wrong_--mashes always _ri'_! An' hain't _I_ 'telligent an' educated?
Very _well_, then. There you _'ave_ it.

_Mr. C.-J._ But--er--don't you see, my friend, that, according to Mr.
GLADSTONE, the more intelligent and educated you are, the more you're
wrong?

_Mr. B._ Nothing of--er--kind. Don' you make any mishtake. _I_ ain't
wrong. I gommy 'pinions--my p'litical 'pinions, and the prinshiples I
go 'pon are--Down with--er--Tories!

_Mr. C.-J._ In that case, Mr. BULCHER, I need not occupy your time any
longer, so I'll say--

_Mr. B._ (_buttonholing him_). Don' you go 'way, Guv'nor, 'fore I've
finished torkin. I've lishened all _you_ gorrer say--now itsh
_my_ turn talk, and I tell _you_ er Conshervative Gov'men ish a
downri'--&c., &c.

_Mr. C.-J._ (_escaping, after ten minutes' incoherence_). I'm afraid
he was not _quite_ in a condition to be argued with, but perhaps I
shall do better with Mr. MOLESKIN, next door. (_To a small boy in
passage._) Mr. MOLESKIN in, my lad?

_The Boy._ Father--_e's_ in. Go right up the stairs, and you'll find
'im.

    [_Mr. C.-J. flounders up the narrow stairs, and is met at the
    top by a very burly and surly mechanic._

_Mr. Moleskin_. Now, then, what do _you_ want 'ere? (Mr. C.-J.
_explains his object, in some confusion_.) Oh, that's it, is it? And
what right ha' you got comin' up my stairs as if they belonged to you?
Jest you tell me that!

_Mr. C.-J._ (_meekly_). I'm really very sorry--but I was--er--_shown_
up.

_Mr. M._ It's 'igh time you and the likes o' you _were_ shown up, in
my opinion. 'Ow would you like to 'ave me comin' bustin' up _your_
stairs, eh?

_Mr. C.-J._ (_thinking that he wouldn't like it at all_). I assure
you I quite feel that this is an unwarrantable intrusion on my part--I
must ask you to accept my best apologies--but I should be very glad
to know that we might count on your--er--support at such a national
crisis.

_Mr. M._ I dessay yer would. But what I ask _you_ is--where does the
secresy of the Ballot come in, if I'm to tell you which way I'm goin'
to give my vote?

_Mr. C.-J._ (_in distress_). Pray believe that I should not dream
of--er--forcing any confidence from you, or dictating to you in any
way! I merely--

_Mr. M._ (_mollified_). Well, I don't mind tellin' yer this
much:--I've made up _my_ mind long ago, and, when the time comes, I
shall vote to please myself and nobody else; and that's as much as
you've got any right to know!

_Mr. C.-J._ (_with a feeling that he would give much the same answer
himself under similar circumstances_). Then I'm afraid it would be of
no use if I said any more?

_Mr. M._ Not a bit o' use! [_He goes into his room again._

_Mrs. Moleskin_ (_coming out and addressing her son from landing_).
'Ere, JIMMY, you come in orf o' that doorstep, and don't you go
showin' any _more_ folks up, or you don't know _oo'_ you may let in
next!

_Mr. C.-J._ (_sadly, to himself, as he descends_). I'd no idea
canvassing was such exhausting work. I--I really think I've done
enough for one afternoon! [_Leaves Little Anna Maria Street--for
ever!_

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "Bear with us!"]

"BEAR WITH US."--In the case reported in the papers last week of "an
infuriated bear shot at Croydon," Inspector ORMONDE said that "when
the ring had been removed from its lip, the animal was so much
relieved that it immediately turned a somersault." A picture of this
interesting incident should be at once painted and hung up in the
Divorce Court. The husband, who has become quite a bear in consequence
of his better half having rendered herself quite unbearable, would
naturally turn head-over-heels with joy on getting quit of the ring.
But alas! mark the end of the poor bear. He got more and more excited;
he had to be looked up in a stable. Here the joy and novelty of the
situation overcame him; his mighty brain gave way; he became mad as
a hatter--(_Alice in Wonderland_ might have asked, "Then why didn't
they send for a hatter, who would have brought a chimney-pot, or some
sort of a tile for his bear-head?")--and subsequently the veterinary
Mr. THRALE (whose ancestral namesake had considerable experience
in dealing with that learned bear. Dr. JOHNSON) procured a gun, and
potted the bear. Awkward in his life, but grease-ful in his death.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: EDWARDO AND EDWINI.

A JAPANESE JAPE BY OUR EVER-ON-THE-SPOT ARTIST "LIKA JOKO,"
REPRESENTING SIR EDWIN ARNOLD RECEIVING THE ORDER OF "THE FIRST
DESCRIPTIVE LEADER" FROM H.J.M., DALI TELLI, THE MIKADO.]

       *       *       *       *       *

LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.

_Mount Street, Grosvenor Square._

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

Anything more dreary than racing during this week's weather at
Newmarket can scarcely be imagined! I have often heard Lord ARTHUR
declare he was "as dry as a limekiln," and always thought it an absurd
expression; and now I _know_ it is!--for anything more _wet_ than
the Limekilns at Newmarket this week I never saw!--it's a mystery to
me how the poor horses and men avoid catching cold, cantering about
there without galoshes--though, by the way, Mr. HAMMOND had _one_
"_Galoche_" which, of course, was not much use!

Owing to the smallness (that's a good word) of the attendance, we were
"pinched" a little in the prices, and of course the pinch came where
one least expected it, which was somewhat disconcerting--but as most
of the "good things" came off all right--(especially those we took
with us from BENOIST and FORTNUM's)--it did not matter so much. Ladies
of course were chiefly conspicuous by their absence, but my sweet
friend Lady NEWMAN GATESHEAD was quite the _Belle_ of the gathering,
and attracted nearly as much attention as the _Queen of Navarre_, who
naturally won her race in royal style!

My selection for the Chesterfield Stakes, _Meddler_, was successful
after a short struggle with the Duke of PORTLAND's _Kilmarnock_ to
whom he had to give five pounds (I hope this does not mean that the
noble owner is in want of money!); but I am told the latter was not
"fit" and "will do better with time!" though I don't quite see how
that can be, as surely "time" travels faster than _Meddler_, so that,
unless they take time with him, the handicap will be difficult to
frame! By the way, when the handicaps _are_ framed, where do they hang
them up? and is it one of the "perks" of the Handicapper to supply the
frames?

Those who waited in the rain for the last race on Wednesday were
rewarded with a splendid exhibition of horsemanship, given by WEBB on
_St. Angelo_; who appears to be somewhat of a "handful" (_St. Angelo_
I mean, not WEBB, who is very slight), and evinces a strong desire
to run in any direction but the one desired of him! I think Mr.
MILNER should have him trained on a zigzag method, when his natural
wilfulness would cause him to run straight when racing! This is an
excellent idea, and I have others equally good (applicable to all
styles of horses), which I intend to suggest to different trainers on
my next visit to Newmarket!

We were all relieved when the "curtain rang down" on Thursday--(this
is not, at first sight, a racing expression, but is largely used by
sporting writers, as demonstrating the diversified nature of their
knowledge!), in time for us to catch the early special for Liverpool
Street; which, special, might really, from the major portion of its
patrons, have been thought to be starting for Jerusalem!

Friday was a glorious day for the Eclipse, which was only visible from
the Observatory at Esher--the best account appears to have been given
by Professor _Orme_, who recovered from his recent severe illness just
in time to be present.

Just a word in conclusion on the big race of next week--a paradox--be
"wide awake" and go "nap" on my tip, from information privately given
to

Yours devotedly, LADY GAY.

LIVERPOOL CUP SELECTION.

  Some owners win, although their gee
  In temper be a "villen;"
  As that is not the sort for me,
  I favour "_Enniskillen_."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: EN PASSANT.

_He_. "THAT'S THAT ASS, BOUNDERSON, ISN'T IT? HE SHOULD HAVE BEEN
DROWNED AS A _PUPPY_!"

_She_. "THERE'S TIME ENOUGH _YET_, ISN'T THERE?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE POLITICAL JOHNNY GILPIN.

THE FINISH.

(_Further-discovered Fragments of the Grand Old Ballad, giving the
Sequel of the strange story begun in "Punch," No. 2660, July 2, p.
318._)

       *       *       *       *       *

  So fair and softly! JOHNNY cried,
  But JOHNNY cried in vain;
  That trot became a gallop soon,
  In spite of curb and rein.

  So, stooping down, as needs he must
  Who cannot sit upright,
  He grasped the mane with both his hands,
  And eke with all his might.

         *       *       *       *       *

  Away went GILPIN neck or nought,
  Away went hat and wig;
  He little dreamt when he set out
  Of running such a rig.

  The wind did blow, the cloak did fly
  Like streamer long and gay,
  Till people thought, and JOHN half feared,
  That it might fly away.

  Then might all gazers well discern
  The bottles he had slung;
  A bottle swinging at each side,
  As hath been said or sung.

  Away went GILPIN--who but he?
  His fame soon spread around;
  "He carries weight! He rides a race!"
  "He'll win it, we'll be bound!"

         *       *       *       *       *

  Then all through merry London Town,
  These gambols he did play;
  Until he came to rural parts,
  Where rustics lined the way.

  There labourers shouted, women screamed,
  Up flew the felt-hats all;
  And every yokel yelled, "Well done!"
  As loud as he could bawl.

         *       *       *       *       *

  Away went GILPIN, out of breath,
  And fearing much a "spill;"
  But knowing till his race was run
  His horse would not stand still.

  His hat was gone, his W(h)ig also,
  His cloak he had to clutch.
  Could he hold on? A mile or two
  Would put it to the touch.

  A church-bell clanging, scared his steed,
  Pigs dashed betwixt its feet;
  And on his own beloved North Road,
  JOHN _almost_ lost his seat.

  On the North Road, his sometime friends,
  Their sometime favourite spied,
  Well-nigh dismounted, wondering much,
  To see how he did ride.

  "Ride straight, JOHN GILPIN--for the House!"
  JOHN's Liberal Dame did cry.
  "The Party waits, and we feel tired."
  Said GILPIN--"So do I!"

  But yet his horse was not a whit
  Inclined due North to stay;
  For why?--his stables at the House
  Were out Westminster way.

  So like an arrow swift he flew
  Back southward through the throng,
  Who shouted loud, "He yet will win!
  JOHN GILPIN's going strong!"

         *       *       *       *       *

  And now Town's traffic once again
  For horse and man made space,
  The drivers thinking, as before,
  That GILPIN rode a race.

  And so he did--and won it, too,
  For he got first to Town;
  And, stiff and sore, at the House door,
  Bare winner, he got down.

  Now let us sing, Long live the QUEEN,
  And GILPIN, long live he!
  And when he next doth ride due North,
  May we be there to see!

       *       *       *       *       *

A GOOD STAYER.--From the _Times_ of Tuesday, the 12th, we cull this:--

    IN ANY CAPACITY of TRUST.--Seven years in first-class Turkish
    Bath. Patience and perseverance. Good invalid attendant.
    Active and attentive.

"Seven years in a Turkish Bath!" As Mr. WILSON BARRETT would
exclaim, "How long! How long!" What better example of patience and
perseverance, which, as all know, are "good for the gout," could
possibly be given? That after this long stay in the Turkish Bath, he
should be "a good invalid attendant," goes without saying. And not
only is he "attentive," which is a great point in an "attendant," but
he is also active--and this after so long a stay in a Turkish Bath, of
which, however, he does not mention the temperature.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE POLITICAL JOHNNY GILPIN.

(_THE FINISH_.)

"SO LIKE AN ARROW SWIFT HE FLEW BACK SOUTHWARD THROUGH THE THRONG, WHO
SHOUTED LOUD, 'HE YET WILL WIN! JOHN GILPIN'S GOING STRONG!'

"AND SO HE DID--AND WON IT, TOO, FOR HE GOT FIRST TO TOWN; AND, STIFF
AND SORE, AT THE HOUSE DOOR, BARE WINNER, HE GOT DOWN."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "COLOURABLE SHAKSPEARIAN IMITATION."

_Othello, M.P. for Central Finsbury_ (_saluting Sarum, Doge of
Westminster_). "HAPLY THAT I AM BLACK--" [_Doge shudders, but feels
unable to withdraw._]

       *       *       *       *       *

OPERATIC NOTES.

_Wednesday_.--Crowded for WAGNER's _Götterdämmerung_, "which," says
the _Rev. Mr. Penley_, who "doesn't like London," "is such an awful
name, that fond as I am of music, I really could not go and see it."
As to WAGNER, well, "it's all right when you know him, but you've got
to know him fust."

Herr ALVARY excellent as _Siegfried_; Herr WIEGAND powerful; ditto
the wide-awake Herr KNAPP. Frau KLAFSKY, a beautiful and interesting
_Brünnhilde_; and it is difficult to be personally interesting in a
Wagnerian Opera, where _ensemble_ is everything. Fräulein HEINE and
BETTAQUE, equally good.

Herr MAHLER was "called," with the rest of the company, to receive his
meed of praise for conducting. Opera perfectly put on Stage by Herr
von DRURIOLANUS, and though the Season is coming to an end, yet the
Opera is still "going strong."

       *       *       *       *       *

NOTE AND QUERY BY MRS. R.--Our old friend wants to know from what Poet
comes this quotation--

  "A needless Salamander ends the line."

Mrs. R. thinks it's from POPE; but if so, she asks what Pope? as there
are so many of 'em.

       *       *       *       *       *

ORNAMENTAL STRUCTURE IN NEW NORFOLK.--A Triumphal ARCH.

       *       *       *       *       *

STUDIES IN THE NEW POETRY.

NO. IV.

In offering this fourth example of the New Poetry to his readers, _Mr.
Punch_ wishes it to be distinctly understood, that he is in no way
responsible, personally, for the curious mixture of divinities and
semi-divinities who figure in it. It is one of the distinguishing
marks of this particular sort of New Poetry to pile up a confusion of
more or less mythological names in a series of swinging and resonant
lines. In one line the reader may imagine himself to be embarked in
the River Cocytus. In the next, he will be surprised to find himself
in Eden. Blood, battle, bumptiousness, and an aggressive violence, are
special characteristics of this style of writing. Some of the lines
apparently mean nothing at all, others are calculated to make timid
people tremble; and the effect of the whole is generally picturesque,
lurid, and uncomfortable.

One of the great advantages of a poem like this, is that it may be
used for all kinds of purposes. For example, if it was originally
written as an invective against an opponent, it may afterwards, with
the utmost ease, be made to serve as a threnody. Here then without
further preface is:--

THE SUNDERED FLEA.

BY MR. R*DY*RD K*PL*NG.

  Out on the path of the blazing ball that has hurtled a million
          years,
  Where the uttermost light glows red by night in the clash of the
          angry spheres,
  Where never a tear-drop dims the eye, and sorrows are stifled young,
  And the Anglo-Indians snigger and sneer with the jest of a bitter
          tongue.

  Where the tribesmen mock at the Bengalee and shiver their spears
          in vain,
  And officers steep their souls chin-deep in brandy and dry
          champagne;
  Where the Rudyard river runs, flecked with foam, far forth to the
          Kipling seas,
  And the maker of man takes walks abroad with Pagan deities.

  Where AZRAEL talks to the Graces Three, and the Muses Nine stand by,
  And ask Greek riddles of BUDDHA, who never makes reply.
  (Gentlemen all and ladies too as smart as a brand-new pin),
  And nobody wonders how on earth so mixed a lot got in--

  Here in the track of a thunderbolt from the nethernmost smithy
          hurled,
  With the groan of an ancient passion rent from the wreck of a
          shattered world,
  In the white-hot pincers of BAAL borne through cycles of agony,
  Lit by the Pit's red wrath there came the Soul of a Sundered Flea.

  And all that company started back; first AZRAEL grimly smiled,
  The smile that an East-End Coster smiles, by a stout policeman
          riled;
  And BUDDHA made no remark at all, but nodded his heavy head,
  Like a boy who has eaten too much dessert, and wants to be put to
          bed.

  And the Muses Nine, as they stood in line, they shuddered and
          turned to go.
  "A joke's a joke, but I can't bear fleas," said CLIO to ERATO.
  And the Graces, the good Conservative Three, shrank back to a spot
          remote,
  And observed that they knew that this would come from letting the
          Masses vote.

  Then AZRAEL spake--"On the Stygian lake I floated a half-sinned sin
  On the crest of a cross-grained stickleback, that is caught with a
          crooked pin;
  For a year and a day I watched it whirl, but never that sin could be
  One-half so base as your gruesome face, O Soul of a Sundered Flea!

  "What ill have ye done? Speak up, speak up!--for this is no place,
          I trow,
  For the puling people on virtue fed. So speak, or prepare to go."
  But the Flea flew free from the pincers' grip, and uttered a
          single phrase--
  "I have lived on blood, as a gentleman should, and that is my
          claim to praise."

  Then a shout of joy from the throng went forth; they built him a
          crystal throne,
  And there in his pride, with none beside, he rules and he reigns
          alone.
  And this is the tale which I here set down, as the story was told
          to me--
  In excellent Rudyard-Kipling verse--the tale of the Sundered Flea.

       *       *       *       *       *

ANTICIPATORY NEWS (_from Our Own Court Tripping Newsman_).--Sir
ALGERNON BORTHWICK, Bart, M.P., will be raised to the Peerage with the
title of Lord MORNINGPOST, of Penniwise, Seefarshire, N.B.

       *       *       *       *       *

An Anti-lawn-tennis Lady considers that the argument against Croquet,
as a game involving a bent back, and a narrowing of the chest, is
merely "A very stoopit objection."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: GUSHING HOSPITALITY. (TIME 3 P.M.)

_Hospitable Host_. "HAVE C'GAR, OLD F'LLA?"

_Languid Visitor_. "NO--THANKS!"

_H.H._ "CIGARETTE THEN?"

_His Visitor_. "NO--THANKS. NEVAR SMOKE 'MEJATELY AFTER BREAKFAST."

_H.H._ "CAN'T REFUSE A TOOTHPICK, THEN, OLD F'LLA?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

_The Royal Agricultural Society's Journal_. A Society Journal of
a peculiar character, of which this is the Third Series and Third
Volume. It is noticeable for Lord CATHCART's appeal for the wild
birds, which, as addressed to farmers and farm-labourers and armed
ploughboys, may be summed up by an adaptation of the refrain of the
remonstrance--so frequently urged by one of Lieutenant COLE's funny
figures--"Can't you let the birds alone?" Then Mr. HASTING "On
Vermin," which doesn't sound nice, though better than if the title
were _vice versâ_,--is most interesting, especially where he tells us
that "shrews are harmless." If so, why did SHAKSPEARE give us "_The
Taming of the Shrew_" as such a feat? Professor BROWN writes about
disease in sheep, of which paper Lord ARTHUR WEEDON DE GROSSMITH
would be absolutely correct in observing, "What rot!" And, by the
way, _à propos_ of WEEDON, the Baron has to congratulate the Brothers
GROSSMITH on their _Diary of a Nobody_, republished from _Mr. Punch's_
pages, but with considerable additions. The Diary is very funny, not
a page of it but affords matter for a good laugh; and yet the story
is not without a touch of pathos, as it is impossible not to pity the
steady, prim, old-fashioned jog-trot NOBODY, whose son, but just one
remove above a regular 'ARRY, treats him with such unfilial rudeness.

It has been complained that the late General Election has not been
amusing, and has given birth to little fun. Let those who feel this
most acutely read Mr. R.C. LEHMANN's _The "Billsbury Election (Leaves
from the Diary of a Candidate)."_ He will tell you how Mr. RICHARD
B. PATTLE contested Billsbury in the Constitutional Interest; how he
"buttered up Billsbury like fun," was badgered by Billsbury, heckled
by Billsbury, taxed, tithed and tormented by Billsbury, and eventually
"chucked" by Billsbury, by the aggravatingly small majority of
seventeen. Also how his "Mother bore up like a Trojan, and said she
was prouder of me than ever." Just so.

  I hold it true whate'er befall,
  I wrote so, to the _Morning Post_;
  'Tis better to have "run" and lost,
  Than never to have run at all.

"Modern Types" and "Among the Amateurs" are well known to the readers
of _Punch_. But lovers of C.S. CALVERLEY--that is to say, all but a
very few ill-conditioned critical creatures--and of neat verse with a
sting to it, should turn to p. 203 (A.C.S. _v_. C.S.C.), and read and
enjoy the smart slating Mr. LEHMANN administers to tumid, tumultuous,
thrasonic, turncoatist ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE, for saying
of the brilliant and well-beloved Author of _Fly Leaves_, &c.,
that he--forsooth!--is "monstrously overrated and preposterously
overpraised"!!! BARON DE B.-W. & Co.

       *       *       *       *       *

WANTED IN THE LAW COURTS.

A Junior who will wear his gown straight, and not pretend that intense
preoccupation over dummy briefs prevents him from knowing that it is
off one shoulder.

A Judge who can resist the temptation to utter feeble witticisms, and
to fall asleep.

A Witness who answers questions, and incidentally tells the truth.

A Jury who do not look supremely silly, and ridiculously
self-conscious, when directly addressed or appealed to by Counsel;
or one that really understands that the Judge's politeness is only
another and subtle form of self-glorification.

A Q.C. who is not "eminent," who does not behave "nobly," and who can
avoid the formula "I suggest to you," in cross-examination; or one
that does not thunder from a lofty and inaccessible moral altitude so
soon as a nervous Witness blunders or contradicts himself.

An Usher who does not try to induce the general public, especially the
female portion thereof, to mistake him for the Lord Chancellor.

A Solicitor who does not strive to appear _coram populo_ on terms of
quite unnecessarily familiar intercourse with his leading Counsel.

An Articled Clerk who does not dress beyond his thirty shillings
a-week, and think that the whole Court is lost in speculation as to
the identity of that distinguished-looking young man.

An Associate who does not go into ecstasies of merriment over every
joke or _obiter dictum_ from the Bench.

Anybody who does not give loud expression to the opinion at the
nearest bar when the Court rises, that he could have managed the case
for either or both sides infinitely better than the Counsel engaged.

A Court-house whose atmosphere is pleasant and invigorating after the
Court has sat for fifteen minutes.

(Anyone concerned who, on reading these remarks in print, will think
that the cap can, by any _scintilla_ of possibility, fit himself.)

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: BUFFALO WILLIAM'S GREAT WILD N.S.E. & W. SHOW. THE
LATEST "UNSEATING ACT."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF A LABOUR CANDIDATE.

WARRANTED TO "SWEEP THE COUNTRY," AND MAKE HIS MARK IN THE HOUSE OF
COMMONS. (NATURALLY A FLUE-NT SPEAKER)!]

       *       *       *       *       *

JUSTICE FOR 'FRISCO.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I notice that a complaint has been made that those
charming stories of wild life in the Far West, are out of date.
Nay, more, that they are calculated to do a great deal of harm to
a considerable amount of valuable property. On the other hand, the
talented authors of the picturesque romances to which I have referred,
insist that there is a great demand for these literary wares, and they
would suffer much loss if they were to discontinue their production.

Could not the matter be compromised? We are less sensitive than our
American cousins, and if the scene were changed from St. Francisco to
some quiet watering-place on the Kentish Coast, our kindred beyond
the seas ought to be satisfied. I do not pretend to be a master of the
style of those who write Backwood sensations, but I think I can jot
down a few lines to show what I mean. Beneath I give a specimen of the
sort of thing that might take the place of stories revelling in such
titles as the "_Luck of Murder Camp_," "_Slack Bill's Banker_," and
"_The Talk of Stab-in-the-Backman's Chasm_."

THE CHAFF OF HERNE BAY CREEK.

CHAPTER XX.--_CHARLEY MEETS A CHUM_.

The Miners who had been digging all day long the rough shingle for
treasure-trove, had retired to their rudely constructed cabins. These
rough huts were built of wood, and furnished with a seat on either
side. There were two small windows let into the oaken walls--each
of them not more than six inches square. They were absolutely free
from furniture--save perhaps, a foot of cheap looking-glass, and
here and there a wooden-peg used by the Miners for hanging up their
slouch-hats, their red flannel-shirts, and their long leather-boots.

These huts were not unlike the other habitations in the wild Far West,
save that they had this peculiarity--each hut was mounted on a huge
springless framework, supported by four lumbering wooden wheels. By
this arrangement the hut could be moved from place to place, sometimes
to the fields, with their mines of undiscovered treasure; sometimes to
the sea, burdened with legacies of the mighty deep.

CHARLEY was smoking a pipe, and thinking of that fair home in San
Francisco, the very centre of civilisation, where the hotels were
admirable, the stores well stocked, and house property at a premium.

"I did not discover a single ruby yesterday," he murmured, and then
he looked at the wooden spade of a child--"I found only there a young
'un's toy. But it has softened my heart, and taught me that human
nature is human nature."

He paused to wipe away with a sunburnt hand a furtive tear.

"CHARLEY, my lad," he exclaimed, "this is unmanly. What would DARE
DEATH DICK or THUNDER TIM say to such a show of water?"

He took the spade, and was about to throw it with violence to the
ground, when his better nature triumphed, and he placed it, almost
with reverence, on the bench beside him.

He was disturbed by a tap on the outer door--the door that faced the
sea.

"Who's there?" he shouted, as he held in one hand a revolver, and in
the other a bowie-knife of the usual fashion.

"Are you ready?"

It was a gruff voice, and yet there was something feminine about
it. CHARLEY had never feared to meet a woman yet, and he did not now
shrink from the encounter. However his training had made him cautious.
It might be a trap of the bloodthirsty Indians--those Children of
Nature who were known to indulge in any cruel subterfuge to secure the
white men as their prey.

"Are you ready?" was repeated in the same gruff voice, but now the
tone was one of entreaty. The speaker seemed to be imploring for a
reply.

CHARLEY hesitated no longer. He put down the bowie-knife, and still
holding the revolver, opened the door.

He started back! Yes, it was a woman who confronted him. But such a
woman! Her face was weather-beaten and sunburnt. Her hair was grey,
and there were pieces of sea-weed in the shapeless mass that once may
have been called a bonnet. She was wearing a heavy serge dress that
was dripping with the sea. On her huge feet were old boots sodden with
sand and wet. She might have been of any age, from fifty upwards.

She gazed at CHARLEY with an uncanny smile, and extended her arms
towards him. Then she spoke in the same gruff tone,

"Come to your MARTHA!"

And CHARLEY knew he had met a chum!

       *       *       *       *       *

There, something like the above might do. The woods in the
neighbourhood of Herne Bay are just the places for adventure, and,
with thought, a good deal might be managed with the Reculvers.

And now, _Mr. Punch_, I have done.

Yours respectfully, A WILD WELSH RAREBIT.

       *       *       *       *       *

COMMERCE À L'AMÉRICAINE.

(_PAGE FROM A DIARY ON THE POINT OF BEING WRITTEN_.)

_Monday_.--Miners of the Great Hagglenaggle Fields ask for increase
of wages, emphasising their demand by firing off revolvers and
brandishing bowie-knives.

_Tuesday_.--Masters of the Great Hagglenaggle Fields refuse to treat
with Miners, and entrench themselves behind ironclad back gardens.
They also send for a force of PATTERSON's Mercenary Chuckers-out.
Fighting imminent.

_Wednesday_.--Appearance of PATTERSON's Mercenary Chuckers out. They
are met by Miners with discharges of Gattling guns and land torpedoes.

_Thursday_.--The two armies face to face. Both sides fire away, using
up all their ammunition. End of the day's contest, no balance on
either side. Great success of the new General Interment Company.
Shares at thirty premium.

_Friday_.--Reinforcements for both sides. A general engagement
considered imminent. In the meanwhile, _pour passer le temps_,
skirmishes and slaughter of thousands.

_Saturday_.--First-class, regular all-round battle. A large force
arrived to fight the Miners, Gatlings and Krupps blaze away without
intermission. Losses on both sides pretty considerable.

_Sunday_.--Conversion of the Great Hagglenaggle Fields into a
cemetery. Great rise in shares on allotment. Ten acres of booking in
advance!

       *       *       *       *       *

LAYS OF MODERN HOME.

NO. III.--OFF FOR MY HOLIDAY.

  Yes! I'm off for my holiday. Forty odd pieces
    Of luggage, three cabs, and a van, and a 'bus too.
  Without counting loose wraps, and umbrellas in creases,
    And sweets that my darlings are sucking with gusto.

  Yes! I'm off for my holiday--wife in hysterics,
    Since nowhere on earth can her poodle be found;
  And the nurses and children--ANNES, LILIANS, ERICS--
    All screaming, and fussing, and fuming around!

  Yes! I'm off for my holiday--Tyneside, or Deeside,
    Or Lakes, or that Switzerland English, Hind Head,
  Or the thousand monotonies known as "The Seaside"--
    Ask not whither my fugitive footsteps are led.

  For whatever the place, it is ever the same thing;
    Poor Paterfamilias always must suffer.
  A dyspeptic, a costly, a lame and a tame thing
    Is Holiday-time for a family buffer.

  Yes! I'm off for my holiday--where I won't mention;
    They are pulling the blinds of my drawing-room down:
  But next year--if I live--it's my solemn intention
    _To stay, upon business, en garçon, in Town_.

       *       *       *       *       *

FAIR PROSPECTS OF FINE WEATHER.--No rain on St. Swithin's, and last
week the County of Inverness discarded its MACKINTOSH.

       *       *       *       *       *

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, July 23, 1892" ***

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