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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 104, January 14, 1893
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 104, January 14, 1893" ***

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VOL. 104.

JANUARY 14th, 1893.

       *       *       *       *       *


    [A Fund has been raised to supply the School Board with
    Union-Jacks, with a view to increasing the loyalty of the
    pupils.--_Daily Paper._]

SCENE--_A Room of the School Board, decorated with flags and trophies
of arms._ Teacher _discovered instructing his pupils in English

_Teacher._ And now we come to the Battle of Trafalgar, which was won
by NELSON in the early part of the present century. As it is my object
to increase your patriotism, I may tell you that "BRITANNIA rules the
waves, and Britons never, never, never will be slaves!" Repeat that in

_Pupils._ "Rule, BRITANNIA, BRITANNIA rules the waves; Britons never,
never, never will be slaves!"

_Teacher._ Thank you very much; and to show how the _esprit de corps_
in Her Majesty's Ships-of-War is preserved, I will now dance the
Sailor's Hornpipe.

    [_Does so._

_First Pupil._ Please, Sir, do Englishmen always win?

_Teacher._ Invariably. If they retire, they do not retreat. Can you
tell me what a retirement of troops in the face of the enemy is

_Second Pupil._ Bolting, Sir.

_Teacher._ Nothing of the sort. Go to the bottom of the class, Sirrah!
Bolting, indeed! Next boy!

_Third Pupil._ It is called "a strategic movement to the rear," Sir.

_Teacher._ Quite right; and now we come to the Battle of Waterloo,
which you will remember was won on the 18th of June, 1815. But perhaps
this may be a convenient time for the introduction of the Union-Jack
War Dance, which, as you all know, has been recently ordered to be
part of our studies by the Committee of the School Board. Now then,
please, take your places.

    [The Pupils _seize the flags hanging to the walls, and dance
    merrily. At the conclusion of the exercise they replace the
    flags, and resume their customary places._

_First Pupil._ If you please, can you tell us anything about the

_Teacher._ As I have explained on many occasions, when you have been
good and obliging enough to put the same question to me, I am
delighted to have the opportunity. You must know that the Union-Jack
represents the greatest nation in the world. This nation is our own
beloved country, and it is gratifying to know that there are no people
so blessed as our own. The Union-Jack flies in every quarter of the
globe, and where it is seen, slavery becomes impossible, and tyranny a
thing of the past. To be an Englishman is to be the noblest creature
on the earth. One Englishman is worth twenty specimens of other
nationalities; he is more conscientious, more clever, more beautiful
than any other living man, and it is a good thing for the world that
he exists. _(Looking at watch._) And now, as we have rather exceeded
our usual time for study, we will depart after the customary ceremony.

    [_The_ Pupils _then sing the National Anthem, and the School
    dismisses itself with three cheers for_ HER MAJESTY.

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Illustration: "ON NE 'PATINE' PAS AVEC L'AMOUR."
    (_With Apologies to the Shade of Alfred de Musset._)]

       *       *       *       *       *


SIR,--I have been deeply thrilled by the suggestion for curing the
Agricultural depression which Messrs. MACDOUGALL, of Mark Lane, have
made. I am not myself an Agriculturist; still, in--or rather near--the
suburban villa in which I reside, I have an old cow, and a donkey on
which my children ride. Directly I heard that the way to keep animals
warm and comfortable in Winter was to smear them all over with oil,
thus saving much of the cost of feeding them, I tried the plan on the
aged cow. Perhaps the oil I used was not sufficiently pure. At all
events the animal, which had never been known before to do more than
proceed at a leisurely walk, rushed at frantic speed into the garden,
and tossed my wife's mother into a cucumber-frame. She has now gone
home. Undeterred by the comparative failure of this attempt, I smeared
our donkey with a pint of the best castor-oil, just before setting out
on its daily amble, with the children (in panniers) on its back. It
did not appear to relish the treatment, as it instantly broke loose,
and was found, five miles off, in a village pound, while the children
were landed in a neighbouring ditch. I am writing to Messrs.
MACDOUGALL, to ask for particulars of how the oil is to be applied. I
am sure it is an excellent idea, if the animals could be brought to
see it in the same light.

  Yours, experimentally,


MY DEAR MR. PUNCH,--SMITH Minor, who is staying at our house for part
of the holidays, said what good fun it would be to try the MACDOUGALL
plan on my Uncle from India. He is always cold and shivering. We
waited till he was having a nap after dinner in the arm-chair, and we
coated him over with butter that SMITH Minor got from Cook. (Cook
never will give _me_ butter.) When we got to his hair he unfortunately
woke up, so that is probably why the plan did not succeed. We thought
he would be pleased to feel warmer, but he wasn't. Uncles are often
ungrateful, SMITH Minor says. And it _did_ succeed in one way, because
he seemed awfully hot and red in the face when he found what we had
been doing. Perhaps we ought not to have tried smearing him on his
clothes, but how could we get his clothes off without waking him?
SMITH Minor says it's a pity we didn't drug him. N.B.--I have been
stopped going to the Pantomime for this, and SMITH Minor is to be sent

  Your dejected      TOMMY.


SIR,--I want to bring an action against Messrs. MACDOUGALL, of Mark
Lane. I tried their smearing plan on a horse in my stable that had a
huge appetite, and was always getting cold if left out in the wet. I
used paraffin, and at first the animal seemed really grateful. In the
night I was called up by a fearful noise, and found that the horse's
appetite had not got at all less owing to the oil; on the contrary, it
seemed to have eaten up most of the woodwork of the stable, and was
plunging about madly. The paraffin caught light, and the stable was
burned, and the horse too. In future I shall feed my horse in the
usual way, not on the outside.

  Yours,      TITUS OATS.

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Illustration: THE THIN BROWN LINE.]

    ["Decidedly the most gratifying feature in the accounts of
    these engagements which have reached us, is the proof which
    they contain of the remarkable progress in all soldierly
    qualities made by the fellaheen forces, under the guidance and
    instruction of their British Officers."--_The Times._]

  _Tommy Atkins, loquitur_:--

  "WE'VE fought with many men acrost the seas,
    And some of 'em was brave, an' some was not."
  (So Mister KIPLING says. His 'ealth, boys, please!
    '_E_ doesn't give us TOMMIES Tommy-rot.)
  We didn't think you over-full of pluck,
    When you scuttled from our baynicks like wild 'orses;
  But you're mendin', an' 'ere's wishing of you luck!
    Wich you're proving an addition to our forces.
  So 'ere's _to_ you, though 'tis true that at El Teb you cut and ran;
  You're improvin' from a scuttler to a first-class fighting man;
  You can 'old your own at present when the bullets hiss and buzz,
  And in time you may be equal to a round with Fuzzy-Wuz!

  You've been lammed and licked sheer out of go an' grit,
  From the times of Pharaoh down to the Khe-_dive_;
     Till you 'ardly feel yerself one bloomin' bit,
  And I almost wonder you are left alive.
    But we've got you out of a good deal of _that_,
    Sir EVELYN and the rest of us. You _foller_;
      And you'll fight yer weight in (Soudanese) wild cat
    One day, nor let the Fuzzies knock you oller.
  Then 'ere's _to_ you, my fine Fellah, and the missis and the kid!
  When you stand a Dervish devil-rush, and do as you are bid,
  You'll just make a TOMMY ATKINS of a quiet Coptic sort;
  And I shouldn't wonder then, mate, if the Fuzzies see some sport.

    Some would like us lads to clear out! Wot say _you_?
      _We_ don't tumble to the Parties and their fakes;
    But I guess we don't mean scuttle. If we _do_,
      We shall make the bloomingest o' black mistakes;
    With the 'owling Dervishes you've stood a brush,
      With a baynick you can cross a shovel-spear;
    But leave yer to the French, and Fuzzy's rush?
      That won't be a 'ealthy game for many a year.
  So 'ere's _to_ you, my fine Fellah! May you cut and run no more,
  Though the 'acking, 'owling, 'ayrick-'eaded niggers rush and roar,
  We back you, 'elp you, train you, and to make the bargain fair,
  We won't leave you--yet--to Fuz-Wuz--him as broke a British Square.

    You ain't no "thin red" 'eroes, no, not yet,
      But a patient, docile, plucky, "thin brown line."
    May be useful in its way, my boy, you bet'!
      All good fighters may shake fists, you know--'ere's mine!
    You're a daisy, you're a dasher, you're a dab!
      I'll fight with you, or join you on a spree
    Let the skulkers and the scuttlers stow their gab,
      TOMMY ATKINS drinks your 'ealth with three times three!
  So 'ere's _to_ you, my fine Fellah! 'E who funked the 'ot Soudan,
  And the furious Fuzzy-Wuzzies, grows a first-class fighting-man:
  An' 'ere's _to_ you, my fine Fellah, coffee 'ide and inky hair
  May yet shoulder stand to shoulder with me in a British Square!

       *       *       *       *       *


  Yes, life _is_ hard. Our fellows judge us coldly;
    We mostly dwell in fog, and dance in fetters;
  But sweeter far to face oblivion boldly,
    Than front posterity through a _Life and Letters._
  That Memory's the Mother of the Muses,
    We're told. Alas! it must have been the Furies!
  Mnemosyne her privilege abuses,--
    Nothing from her distorting glass secure is.
  Life is a Sphinx: folk cannot solve her riddles,
  So they've recourse to spiteful taradiddles,
  Which they dub "Reminiscences." Kind fate,
  From, the fool's Memory preserve the Great!

       *       *       *       *       *

"HOW LONDON THEATRES ARE WARMED."--By having first-rate pieces. This
prevents any chance of a "frost."

       *       *       *       *       *

is our J. S. B-LF-R gone?"

       *       *       *       *       *

  When the _P. M. Gazette_ by a Tory was book'd,
  The Editor "Cust," and its readers were Cooke'd.

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Illustration: "SURGIT AMARI ALIQUID----"


       *       *       *       *       *


    [_Pantaloon, Clown, Harlequin, and Columbine_ are the
    characters of an old sixteenth-century drama, acted in
    dumb-show. "_Pantaleone_" is a Venetian type; _Columbine_
    means a "little dove."]

  WHILE Fairyland and Fairy tales
    'Neath flaunting pageants fall,
  And over Pantomime prevails
    The Muse of Music Hall.
  Still echoes, wafted through the din,
    A lilt of one old tune--
  Of Columbine and Harlequin,
    Of Clown and Pantaloon.

  Their faded frolics, tarnished show
    Are shadows faint and rude
  Of mimes who centuries ago
    Joked, caramboled and wooed,
  Of masques Venetian, Florentine,
    Of moyen-age renown--
  Of Harlequin and Columbine,
    Of Pantaloon and Clown.

  Not horseplay rough, the Saraband
    They danced in vanished years,
  But Love and Satire hand-in-hand,
    And laughter linked with tears,
  And Youth equipped his dove to win,
    And Age, who grudged the boon;--
  Sweet Columbine, bold Harlequin,
    Cross Clown and Pantaloon.

  Our Children-Critics now who deign
    To greet this honoured jest,
  Acclaiming, "Here we are again!"
    With patronising zest,
  They mark no soft Italian moon
    Which once was wont to shine
  On Harlequin and Pantaloon,
    And Clown and Columbine!

  But, spangled pair of lovers true,
    And, whitened schemers twain,
  The scholar hears in each of you
    A note of that quatrain;
  The dim Renaissance seems to spin
    Around your satin shoon,
  Fair Columbine, feat Harlequin,
    Sly Clown and Pantaloon!

       *       *       *       *       *

EVERYONE sincerely hopes that Sir WEST RIDGWAY will make a good bag
during his visit to the Moors. "Ridgway's Food" is something that can
be swallowed easily, and is so palatable as to be quite a More-ish
sort of dish. Good luck to the experienced and widely-travelled Sir
EAST-AND-WEST RIDGWAY. Our English ROSEBERY couldn't have made a
better choice.

       *       *       *       *       *

TO A BREWER (_by Our Christmas Clown_).--"Wish you a Hoppy New Year!"

       *       *       *       *       *



LINCOLN B. SWEZEY was a high-toned and inquiring American citizen, who
came over to study our Institootions. He carried letters to almost
everybody; Dukes, Radicals, Authors, eminent British Prize-fighters,
Music-hall buffoons, and he prosecuted his examination steadily. He
did not say much, and he never was seen to laugh, but he kept a
note-book, and he seemed to contemplate in his own mind, The Ideal
American, and to try to live up to that standard. When he did speak,
it was in the interrogative, and he pastured his intellect on our
high-class Magazines.

LINCOLN B. discovered many things, and noted them down for his work on
_Social Dry Rot in Europe_, but one matter puzzled him. He read in
papers or reviews, and he vaguely heard talk of a secret institution,
the Society of Souls. They were going to run a newspaper; they were
_not_ going to run a newspaper. There was a poem in connection with
them, which mystified LINCOLN B. SWEZEY not a little; he "allowed it
was darned personal," but further than that his light did not
penetrate. He went to a little Club, of which he was a temporary
member; it was not fashionable, and did not seem to want to be, and
SWEZEY thought it flippant. There he asked, "What _are_ the Souls,
anyhow?" "_Societas omnium animarum_," somebody answered, and SWEZEY
exclaimed "Say!" "They are a congregation of ladies. Their statutes
decree that they are to be _bene natæ, bene vestitæ_, and
_mediocriter_,--I don't remember what."

SWEZEY perceived that he was being trifled with, and turned the
conversation to the superior culture and scholarship of American
politicians, with some thoughts on canvas-backed ducks.

He next applied to a lady, whom he regarded as at once fashionable and
well-informed, and asked her, "Who the Souls were, anyhow?"

"Oh, a horrid, stuck-up set of people," said this Pythoness. "They
have passwords, and wear a silver gridiron."

"Why on earth do they do that?" asked SWEZEY.

"No doubt for some improper, or blasphemous reason. Don't be a
Soul--you had better be a Skate. I am a Skate. We wear a silver skate,
don't you see" (and she showed him a model of an Acme Skate in
silver), "with the motto, _Celer et Audax_--'Fast and Forward.'"

SWEZEY expressed his pride at being admitted to these mysteries--but
still pursued his inquiries.

"What do the Souls _do_?"

"All sorts of horrid things. They have a rule that no Soul is ever to
speak to anybody who is not a Soul, in society, you know. And they
have a rule that no Soul is ever to marry a Soul."

"Exogamy!" said SWEZEY, and began to puzzle out the probable results
and causes of this curious prohibition.

"I don't know what you mean," said the lady, "and I don't know why you
are so curious about them. They all read the same books at the same
time, and they sacrifice wild asses at the altar of the Hyperborean
Apollo, IBSEN, you know."

These particulars were calculated to excite SWEZEY in the highest
degree. He wrote a letter on the subject to the _Chanticleer_, a
newspaper in Troy, Ill., of which he was a correspondent, and it was
copied, with zinco-type illustrations, into all the journals of the
habitable globe, and came back to England like the fabled boomerang.
Meanwhile SWEZEY was cruising about, in town and country, looking
out for persons wearing silver gridirons. He never found any, and the
more he inquired, the more puzzled he became. He was informed that a
treatise on the subject existed, but neither at the British Museum,
nor at any of the newspaper offices, could he obtain an example of
this rare work, which people asserted that they had seen and read.

Finally SWEZEY made the acquaintance of a lady who was rumoured darkly
to be learned in the matter. To her he poured forth expressions of his
consuming desire to be initiated, and to sacrifice at the shrine.

"There is not any shrine," said his acquaintance.

    [Illustration: "Then what in the universe is it all about?"]

"Well, I guess I want bad to be a Soul--an honorary one, of course--a
temporary member."

"There are conditions," said the Priestess.

"If there's a subscription"----SWEZEY began.

"There is not any subscription."

"If there's an oath"----

"There is not any oath."

"Well what are the conditions, anyhow?"

"Are you extremely beautiful?"

Among the faults of SWEZEY, personal vanity was not reckoned. He shook
his head sadly, at the same time intimating that he guessed no one
would turn round in Broadway to look at the prettiest Englishwoman

Afterwards, he reflected that this was hardly the right thing to have

"Are you extremely diverting?"

SWEZEY admitted that gaiety was not his forte. Still, he pined for

"What does the Society _do_?" he asked.

"There is not any Society."

"Then why do they call themselves Souls?"

"But they don't call themselves anything whatever."

"Then why are they called Souls?"

"Because they----but no! That is the Mystery which cannot be divulged
to the profane."

"Then what in the universe is it all about?" asked SWEZEY; but this
was a problem to which no answer was vouchsafed.

SWEZEY is still going around, and still asking questions. But he has
moments of despondency, in which he is inclined to allow that the poor
islanders possess, after all, something akin to that boasted
inheritance of his native land, the Great American Joke. "Guess
they've played it on me," is the burden of his most secret

       *       *       *       *       *


    (_Revised to date by Mr. Punch._)

_Question._ What is an Infant?

_Answer._ A guileless child who has not yet reached twenty-one years
of age.

_Q._ What is a year?

_A._ An unknown quantity to a lady after forty. And this reply is
distinctly smart.

_Q._ What is "smartness"?

_A._ The art of appearing to belong to a good set.

_Q._ What is a good set?--_A._ A clique that prefers modes to
morality, _chic_ to comfort, and frivolity to family ties.

_Q._ What is _chic_?--_A._ An indefinable something, implying "go,"
"fast and loose style," "slap-dash."

_Q._ What is a dinner-party?

_A._ A large subject, that cannot be disposed of in a paragraph.

_Q._ What is a subject?--_A._ Something distinct from Royalty.

_Q._ Can one be distinct after dinner?--_A._ Yes,--with difficulty.

_Q._ What is a difficulty?

_A._ When of a pecuniary character--the time following the using up of
the pecuniary resources of your friends.

_Q._ What is a friend?

_A._ A man who dines with you--a past enemy or a future foe.

_Q._ What is bad champagne?--_A._ A fruity effervescing beverage
costing about thirty shillings the dozen.

_Q._ What is good?--_A._ Cannot reply until I have received samples.

_Q._ How can an inexperienced diner discover that he has taken bad

_A._ By the condition of his head on the following morning.

_Q._ What is a head?--_A._ A necessary alternative to money.

_Q._ What is money?

_A._ The only satisfactory representative of credit.

_Q._ What are representatives?

_A._ The mouthpieces of voters mustered in the House of Commons.

_Q._ What is mustard?

_A._ The chief ingredient of breakfast, after a night of it with your
friends, when your appetite requires coaxing.

_Q._ What is the future?--_A._ To-morrow, and the coming centuries.

_Q._ And the past?--_A._ Two minutes ago, and all that went before.

_Q._ And the present?--_A._ The right time for bringing the current
instalment of the Infant's Guide to a prompt conclusion.

       *       *       *       *       *


    [Illustration: Notes for the _Storey_ of _Aladdin_, supplied
    by M. Jacobi.]

    [Illustration: Marie-Aladdin and the Electric Light Pollini.]

ALADDIN at the Alhambra is a genuine "Ballet Extravaganza," the story
being told in pantomimic action, illustrated by M. JACOBI'S
sympathetic music. _Aladdin_ was an excellent subject for Mr. JOHN
HOLLINGSHEAD to take, though I venture to think that our old friend
_Blue Beard_ would be a still better one. The only fault I find with
_Aladdin_ is that it is too soon over. It certainly will take rank
among the most superb and the most dramatic spectacles ever placed on
the Alhambra stage. _Aladdin_ ought to have been made much more of, as
a sort of _L'Enfant Prodigue._ What a chance there would have been for
him in games with the street-boys! Mlle. LEGNANI--so called, of
course, from the graceful facility with which she remains for several
seconds at a time on one leg--is both a pretty and nimble
representative of the Dancing Princess. The _Slave of the Ring_ does
not appear in this story, as far as I could gather, only the _Spirit
of the Lamp_, Signorina POLLINI, puts in an appearance, and a very
splendid appearance it is too! Mr. JOHN HOLLINGSHEAD is to be
congratulated on having struck out a new line--though how he or the
LORD CHAMBERLAIN could "_strike out a new line_" where there is no
dialogue, will ever remain a mystery, even to M. JACOBI who knows most
things well, and music better than anything. Mlle. MARIE is a
sprightly _Aladdin_, her pantomimic action being remarkably good. How
many _Aladdins_ have I seen! Whatever may become of other fairy
tales--though all the best fairy tales are immortal--this of _Aladdin_
will serve the stage for ever. At least, so thinks PRIVATE BOX.

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Illustration: CHEAP LAW IN THE CITY.

    _Probable Development of the new "London Chamber of
    Arbitration," for the economical Settlement of Disputes
    without recourse to Litigation._]

       *       *       *       *       *

BASQUEING IN A NEW LANGUAGE.--Much interest has been excited by the
report that Mr. GLADSTONE, during his stay at Biarritz, used up his
spare moments by studying the Basque tongue. AUTOLYCUS hears that,
contrary to his usual habit, the Right Hon. Gentleman has in this
matter an ulterior purpose. Occasionally, in the heat of debate in the
House of Commons, Mr. ABRAHAM drops into his native tongue, and
addresses the SPEAKER in Welsh. Mr. GLADSTONE, desiring to add a fresh
interest to Parliamentary proceedings, will, in such circumstances,
immediately follow the Hon. Member for the Rhondda Vally, and continue
the debate in Basque.

       *       *       *       *       *

EVIDENT, "WHEN YOU COME TO THINK OF IT."--At what most patriotic
moment of a most patriotic French exile must his feelings be most
bitter?--When his love turns to Gaul.

       *       *       *       *       *


    [Illustration: A Tale Continued in our Next.]

  How eagerly those tales I read
    While still of tender years,
  Of murder strange, of Haunted Grange,
    And gory Buccaneers!
  But, at the most exciting point,
    Abruptly ceased the text,--
  What rage was mine to meet the line,
    _"Continued in our next"!_

  Sometimes, indeed, misfortune sharp
    The Journal would attend--
  The funds would fail, and so the tale
    Remains without an end.
  Now, when I take a serial up,
    I cry, in accents vexed,--
  "I've read enough--why _is_ the stuff
    _'Continued in our next'?"_

  Ah well, the things we valued once
    Enliven us no more!
  (Remarks like these, if morals please,
    I've furnished by the score.)
  And should these verses but result
    In making you perplexed,
  You'll learn with glee _they_ will not be
    _"Continued in our next"!_

       *       *       *       *       *

"Oh, these Christmas Bills!" cried PATERFAMILIAS. "That's what I do,"
rejoined IMPEY QUNIOUS. "My sentiments and practice precisely--'Owe
these Christmas Bills'--and many others."

       *       *       *       *       *


  BILLY and JOHNNIE were two little boys,
  Who wearied of lessons, and tired of their toys.
  Says BILLY, "I've hit on an excellent plan;
  Let's go out in the cold, JOHN, and build a Snow Man!"

_Johnnie_ (_blowing his fingers_). Oh, I say, BILLY, isn't it cold,

_Billy_ (_stamping_). _Is_ it, JOHNNIE? I haven't noticed it myself.

_Johnnie._ Oh, you're as hard as nails, _you_ are. _My_ fingers are
quite numb.

_Billy._ Then work away briskly. _That'll_ warm 'em! Snow's a bit less
binding than I expected to find it. Result of the severe frost, I
suppose. But peg away, and we shall podge it into shape yet, JOHNNIE.

_Johnnie._ Ye-e-e-s! (_Shivers_). But what--er--er--what pattern, or
plan, or model, have we--that--is--er--have _you_--er--decided on,

_Billy_ (_winking_). Well, that's as it happens, JOHNNIE! Remember the
one we built in '86--eh?

_Johnnie_ (_shuddering_). I should think I did. Don't mean to say
we're to go on _those_ lines again, BILLY?

_Billy._ I mean to _say_ nothing of the kind. Many things have
happened since then, JOHNNIE. For one thing, we've had heaps of

_Johnnie._ Hang it, yes! And where are the advisers? Standing aloof
and criticising our work--_in advance_. Where's that bold, blusterous,
bumptious Behemoth, BILL STEAD? Knew all about building Snow Men, _he_
did; had a private monopoly of omniscience in that, as in most other
things, BILL had. And now he's licking creation into shape for
six-pence a month, and shying stones at us whenever he sees a chance.
Little cocksure LABBY, too! Oh, _he_'s a nice boy! If BILL takes all
Knowledge for his province, HENRY considers himself sole proprietor of
_Truth_, and he lets us _have_ Truth--_his_ Truth--every week at
least--in hard chunks--that hurt horribly. All in pure friendliness,
too, as the Bobby said when he knocked the boy down to save him from
being run over. Gr-r-r-r! Believe he's hiding behind the hedge there,
with a pile of hard snowballs to pelt our Man out of shape as soon as
we've licked him into it--if ever we do. TEDDY REED, too, _he_'s
turned nasty, though he _does_ come from "gallant little Wales;" and
now here's WALLACE, the Scotch boy--though _he_ was all right
anyhow!--cutting up rough at the last moment, and complaining of our
Snow Man (which they've all been howling for for six years), because
he fancies its head is likely to be a little too Hibernian for his
Caledonian taste! Oh, they're a nice loyal, grateful lot, BILLY! And
where are the Irish bhoys themselves, in whose interests we are
freezing our fingers and nipping our noses? Standing off-and-on, as it
were, bickering like blazes among themselves, and only uniting to land
_us_ a nasty one now and then--just to encourage us!

_Billy_ (_patting and punching away vigorously_). Loyal? Grateful? Ah,
JOHNNIE, you don't understand 'em as well as I do. Cold has got on
your liver. You're a brave boy, JOHNNIE, but just a bit bilious.
Building Snow Men isn't just like arranging bouquets, my boy. Let them
bicker, JOHNNIE, and _listen to what they say_! It may all come in
handy by-and-by. We've had gratuitous advice and volunteer plans all
round, from ARTY BALFOUR and JOEY CHAMBERLAIN, as well as HENRY, and
TEDDY, and TIM and JOHN E., and the rest of 'em. Let them talk whilst
we build, JOHNNIE. 'Tis a cold, uncomfortable job, I admit; and
whether "friendly" advice or hostile ammunition will do us the most
damage I hardly know--yet. Fierce foes are sometimes easier to deal
with than friendly funkers. A "Thunderer" in open opposition affrights
a true Titan less than a treacherous Thersites in one's own camp. But,
JOHNNIE, we've got to build up this Snow Man somehow, and on some
plan! I only hope (_entre nous_, JOHNNIE) that a thaw won't set in,
and melt it out of form and feature before it is fairly finished!

    [_Left hard at it._

    [Illustration: THE SNOW MAN.]

       *       *       *       *       *



    _Sir Pompey_ (_pompously_). "HE'S NOT A GENTLEMAN AT ALL,


       *       *       *       *       *

Great consternation at hearing of the arrest of "M. BLONDIN" in
connection with the Panama scandals. Of course there can be only _one_
BLONDIN, and some wiseacres at once applied the proverb about "Give
him enough rope," &c. But BLONDIN never fell. It was quite another
BLONDIN. The Hero of Niagara was not the Villain of the Panama
piece--if villain he turn out to be. BLONDIN is still performing;
always walking soberly, though elevated, on the rope that is quite
tight. Maybe the rope gets tighter than ever at this jovial period,
but BLONDIN, _the_ BLONDIN, our BLONDIN'S acts are in the sight of
everybody, his proceedings are intelligible to all, though far above
the heads of the people.


Still, whatever financial accident may have happened to M. BLONDIN, he
has always kept his balance--on the rope.

       *       *       *       *       *


    (_With a Fan._)


  All in your glory you to-night
  Will dance, and me they don't invite
    Your charms to scan;
  And, as a seal might send its skin
  To please the girl it may not win,
    I send a fan.

  Behind this fan some other man
    Your hand will hold;
  Your fearless eyes, so bright and brown,
  Will hide their gladness, glancing down,
    No longer cold.
  And your pale, perfect cheek will take
  That colour for another's sake,
    I ne'er controlled,--
  Yet, ere you sleep, stray thoughts will creep
    To days of old.

  Of old! For in a single day,
  When love first gilds a maiden's way,
    The world grows new;
  And from that new world you will send
  Sweet pity to the absent friend
    Who so loved you.

  Loved--for my love will wither then;
  I cannot share with other men
    The dear delight
  That dwells in your austerest tone,
  That latent hope of joys unknown--
  Though now you will not be my own,
    Some day you might.

  My trusted little friend of yore,
  Of course you'd think my love a bore,
    It's not romantic:
  I've passed beyond the football stage,
  And e'en despair is saved by age
    From growing frantic.

  No, like a veteran grim and grey,
    With sling and crutch,
  I am but fit to watch the fray
  Where, in the world-old, witching way,
  In other hands your fingers stay
    With lingering touch,
  That may mean nothing, or it may
    Mean, oh! so much.

  I'll wed some woman, prim of face,
  Who'll duly fill the housewife's place,
  And with her hard, domestic grace
    Illusions scatter;
  But sometimes when the stars are full,
  While at my season'd pipe I pull,
  I'll see my little love once more,
  With brilliant lovers by the score,
    Whose tributes flatter.
  And, thinking of the light gone by,
  Murmur with philosophic sigh,
    "It doesn't matter."

  And then, perchance, this fan you'll find,
    When all the new romance is over.
  Sweet, may you ne'er with troubled mind
  Half wish you never had resigned,
    Your truest lover.

       *       *       *       *       *

Last week, Dr. ADLER gave, as appears by the extracts, an excellent
Lecture on "Jewish Wit and Humour." He himself is well known as the
_The Jew d'Esprit_.

       *       *       *       *       *

TEMPORARY CHANGE OF NAME.--Will Poplar Hospital be styled, "Un-pop'lar

       *       *       *       *       *


    ["A Cookery Autograph-book is the last idea. Each friend is
    supposed to write a practical recipe for a dainty dish above
    his or her signature."

    _The Graphic._]


  No, MABEL, no;--though your behest
    I always heed with rapt attention,
  Most fervently I must protest
    Against this horrible invention;
  Your word has hitherto been law,
  But this appears the final straw!

  Obedient to imperious looks,
    I've had to write, at your suggestion,
  The answers in confession-books
    To many an idiotic question;
  I'll vow my favourite tint is blue
  (The colour mostly worn by you);

  I'll gladly draw a fancy sketch,
    I'll make acrostics with elation,
  I'll write you verses at a stretch,
    Or give my views on vaccination;
  But, even to fulfil your wishes,
  I cannot manufacture dishes!

  I know, in theory, how to make
    The matutinal tea and coffee,
  And, when at school, I used to bake
    A gruesome mess described as toffee;
  But these, which form my whole _cuisine_,
  Are scarce the kind of thing you mean.

  Of course I'd learn some more by heart,
    If this could gain me your affection,
  But fear the anguish on your part
    Produced by faulty recollection;
  On me, my MABEL, please to look
  As lover only--not as Cook!

       *       *       *       *       *



  Rumour whispers, so we glean
  From the papers, there have been
  Thoughts of bringing on the scene
  This mad, monstrous, metal screen,
  Hiding woman's graceful mien.
  Better Jewish gabardine
  Than, thus swelled out, satin's sheen!
  Vilest garment ever seen!
  Form unknown in things terrene;
  Even monsters pliocene
  Were not so ill-shaped, I ween.
  Women wearing this machine,
  Were they fat or were they lean--
  Small as WORDSWORTH'S celandine,
  Large as sail that's called lateen--
  Simply swept the pavement clean:
  Hapless man was crushed between
  Flat as any tinned sardine.
  Thing to rouse a Bishop's spleen,
  Make a Canon or a Dean
  Speak in language not serene.
  We must all be very green,
  And our senses not too keen,
  If we can't say what we mean,
  Write in paper, magazine,
  Send petitions to the QUEEN,
  Get the House to intervene.
  Paris fashion's transmarine--
  Let us stop by quarantine
  Catastrophic Crinoline!

       *       *       *       *       *

"More butter is coming from Victoria," says the _P. M. G._, "to the
Mother Country." Our Colonies are not given to supplying us with this
article of food to any great extent. It is generally the Mother
Country that has buttered the Colonies.

       *       *       *       *       *


    (_By the Fourth Party._)

    Bardic busybodies,
  Threnodies they wrote:--
    _They_ were the Three Noddies!

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. R. says that, in this cold weather, whenever she wants to know if
there is to be a change, she consults her _thaw_mometer.

       *       *       *       *       *

The amusing article, "A Man's Thoughts on Marriage," ought not to have
appeared in _The Gentleman_, but in the _United Service Magazine_.
This is evident.

       *       *       *       *       *


Before I proceed with the order of subjects which I have proposed to
myself as the proper one to follow, I feel that I must revert for a
moment to the question of "ladies at lunch." You may remember that
some two or three weeks ago I ventured to offer some observations on
this topic. Dear ladies, you can read for yourselves the winged words
in which your adoring _Punch_ settled the matter. "By all means," I
said, "come to lunch, if you must." What can be plainer or more
direct? Bless your pretty, pouting faces, I am not responsible for the
characters of my fellow-men, nor for the harsh language they use. If
they behave like boors, and show an incomprehensible distaste for your
delightful presence, am I, your constant friend, to be blamed? I
cannot alter the nature of these barbarians. But what has happened
since I published an article which had, at any rate, the merit of
truthful portraiture? Why, I have been overwhelmed with epistolary
reproaches in every variety of feminine hand-writing. "A CAREFUL
MOTHER" writes from Dorset--a locality hitherto associated in my mind
with butter rather than with blame--to protest that she has been so
horrified by my cynical tone, that she does not intend to take me in
any longer. She adds, that "_Punch_ has laid upon my drawing-room
table for more than thirty years." Heavens, that I should have been so
deeply, so ungrammatically, honoured without knowing it! Am I no
longer to recline amid photograph albums, gift-books, and
flower-vases, upon that sacred table? And are you, Madam, to spite a
face which has always, I am certain, beamed upon me with a kindly
consideration, by depriving it wantonly of its adorning and necessary
nose. Heaven forbid! Withdraw for both our sakes that rash decision,
while there is yet time, and restore me to my wonted place in your
affections, and your drawing-room.

But all are not like this. Here, for instance, is a sensible and
temperate commentary, which it gives me pleasure to quote word for
word as it was written:--

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I want to tell you that, although I am what one of
your friends called "a solid woman," and ought to feel _deeply_ hurt
by what you said about ladies at lunch, yet I liked that article the
best. I think it was _awfully_ good. But don't you think you are all
rather hard on ladies at shooting-boxes? My idea is that there ought
to be some new rules about shooting-parties. At present, ladies are
asked to amuse the men--at least that is my experience--and it is
rather hard they may not sometimes go on the moors, if they want to.
But, at the same time, I _quite_ understand that they are horribly in
the way, and I am not surprised that the men don't want women about
them when they are shooting. But couldn't they arrange to have a day
now and then, when they could shoot all the morning, and devote
themselves to amusing the women on the moors after lunch? Otherwise, I
think there ought to be a rule that no women are to be invited to
shooting-boxes. It is generally very dull for the women, and I feel
sure the men would be quite as happy without them. I suppose the host
might want his wife to be there, to look after things; but _she ought
to strike_, and ask her lady-friends to do the same; and then they
could go abroad, or to some jolly place, and enjoy themselves in their
own way. Really we often get quite angry--at least I do--when men
treat us as if we were so many dolls, and patronise us in their heavy
way, and expect us to believe that the world was made entirely for
them and their shooting-parties. There must be more give and take.
And, if _we_ are to give you our sympathy and attention, _you_ must
take our companionship a little oftener. We get so dull when we are
all together.

  Your sincere admirer, A LADY LUNCHER.

I confess this simple letter touched an answering chord in my heart. I
scarcely knew how to answer it. At last a brilliant thought struck me.
I would show it to my tame Hussar-Captain, SHABRACK. That gallant son
of Mars is not only a good sportsman, but he has, in common with many
of his brother officers, the reputation of being a dashing, but
discriminating worshipper at the shrine of beauty. At military and
hunt balls the Captain is a stalwart performer, a despiser of mere
programme engagements, and an invincible cutter-out of timid youths
who venture to put forward their claims to a dance that the Captain
has mentally reserved for himself. The mystery is how he has escaped
scathless into what his friends now consider to be assured
bachelor-hood. Most of his contemporaries, roystering, healthy, and
seemingly flinty-hearted fellows, all of them, have long since gone
down, one after another, before some soft and smiling little being,
and are now trying to fit their incomes to the keep of perambulators,
as well as of dog-carts. But SHABRACK has escaped. I found him at his
Club, and showed him the letter, requesting him at the same time to
tell me what he thought of it. I think he was flattered by my appeal,
for he insisted on my immediate acceptance of a cigar six inches long,
and proposed to me a tempting list of varied drinks. The Captain read
the letter through twice carefully, and thus took up his parable:--

"Look here, my son, don't you be put off by what the little woman
says. She don't mean half of it. Get the hostess to strike!"--here he
laughed loudly--"now that's a real good 'un. Why, they haven't got it
in them. Fact is, they can't stand one another's company. She says as
much, don't she? 'We get so dull when we are all together.' Well, that
scarcely looks like goin' off on the strike together, does it? Don't
you be alarmed, old quill-driver, they'll never run a strike of that
kind for more than a day. They'll all come troopin' back, beggin' to
be forgiven, and all that, and, by gum, we shall have to take 'em back
too, just as we're all congratulatin' ourselves that we shan't have to
go to any more blessed pic-nics. That's a woman's idea of enjoyin'
herself in the country--nothin' but one round of pic-nics. I give you
my word, when I was stayin' with old FRED DERRIMAN, in Perthshire,
they reg'larly mapped out the whole place for pic-nics, and I'm dashed
if they didn't spoil our best day's drivin by pic-nickin' in, 'oh,
such a sweet place.' Truth is, they can't get along without us, my
son, only they won't admit it, bless 'em! And, after all, we're better
off when they're in the house, I'm bound to confess; so I don't mind
lettin' 'em have a pic-nic or two, just to keep 'em sweet. Them's my
sentiments, old cock, and you're welcome to them."

I thanked the Captain for his courtesy, and withdrew. But if the whole
thing is merely a matter of pic-nics, it is far simpler than I

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Illustration: TOO AFFECTIONATE BY HALF.


    _Artful Nephew._ "THAT'S JUST IT, AUNTIE. I DON'T WANT TO

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Illustration: MR. PUNCH'S SKATING PARTY.]

       *       *       *       *       *


"Have you read," asks one of the Baron's Assistants of his Chief,
"Miss BRADDON's Christmas Annual? It is entitled, _The Misletoe
Bough_, and contains some of the best short stories I have read
lately. One of them, 'In Mr. CARTWRIGHT's Library,' is a remarkable
combination of quaint, dry humour, and literary skill. Who is the
clever author? But here are other stories, too, that interest and
please, and, not least among them, a charming sketch, by the ever
welcome editress. Bravo, Miss BRADDON!


"_Brownies and Rose-leaves_, by ROMA WHITE (INNES & CO.), is a pretty
little book, prettily written, prettily illustrated by LESLIE BROOKE,
and prettily bound," he continues. "Miss WHITE has a charming knack of
writing musical verse, simple, rhythmical, delightful. To children and
their parents, I say, take my tip (the only one parents will get at
this season), and read ROMA WHITE's dainty, delicate, fresh and breezy

       *       *       *       *       *


_Robin Goodfellow_, by Mr. CARTON, is not a brilliant play, as its
dialogue lacks epigrammatic sparkle: neither is it an interesting
play, as the plot, such as it is, is too weak for words,--which, by
the way, at once accounts for the absence of the sparkle

Three questions must have occurred to those who have already seen the
play, and which those who may hereafter see it will be sure to ask
themselves,--and they are these:--

    [Illustration: Nearly burning his fingers. Mr. Hare acting
    with Grace.]

First. Why should _Grace's_ father, _Valentine Barbrook_, tell her of
the means by which he had brought about the betrothal of _Hugh Rokeby_
to _Constance_?

Secondly. This being so, why allow six weeks to elapse when a word
from the one girl, who knows, to the other, who doesn't, would explain

Thirdly. If a sudden shock would kill the grandmother, surely, in the
course of six weeks, _Grace_ would have found out that her shortest
and best way was to tell the truth to her cousin, without mentioning
it to the old lady.

If in doubt, why didn't she confide in the Doctor, who would at once
have told her whether the nature of the communication she had to make
was of a sufficiently startling nature to kill the old lady right off
or not?

The fact is, it was necessary to keep the lover, _Mr. Stanley
Trevenen_, away for some time, in order to allow of there being a
glimmer of probability in the announcement of his having thrown over
the girl to whom he is devotedly attached, and having married somebody
else whom he met abroad. "Now," says the dramatist, "what is the
shortest possible space of time I can allow for this? Ahem!--say a
month." So he gives him a month. "Then," says he, next, "what is the
shortest possible time we can allow for an engagement and a marriage?
Say six weeks. Good. Six weeks be it. Only, hang it, this muddle has
to last for six weeks! Well, it can't be helped. I can't give any more
trouble to the bothering plot; and, as after all, there's a capital
character for Mr. HARE, and not at all a bad one for Miss RORKE, with
a fairish one for FORBES ROBERTSON, why, if Mr. HARE will accept the
play, and do it, I should say that, cast and played as it will be, it
is pretty sure to be a success."

    [Illustration: The Happy Pair.]

So much for the Author and the Play. As to the Actors, Mr. HARE has
had many a better part, and this is but an inferior species of a genus
with which the public has long been familiar; but there is no one who
can touch him in a part of this description. Admirable! most
admirable! _Barbrook_ is in reality a silly elderly scamp, with all
the will to be a villain but not endowed with the brains requisite for
that line of life. Thus, the Author, unconsciously, has created him.
But Mr. HARE invests this feather-headed scoundrel with Iago-ish and
Mephistophelian characteristics, that go very near to make the
audience believe that, after all, there _is_ something in the part,
and also in the plot. But the part is only a snowman, and melts away
under the sunlight of criticism. Miss KATE RORKE is charming. It is a
monotonous and wearisome part, and the merit of it is her own. Miss
NORREYS is very good but the girl is insipid. Miss COMPTON, as the
good-hearted, knowing, fast lady, wins us, as she proves herself to be
the real _Robin Goodfellow_, the real good fairy of the piece, _Robin
Goodfellow_ is a misnomer, unless the aforesaid _Robin_ be dissociated
from _Puck_: but it is altogether a bad title as applied to this piece
for, as with Mr. CARTON's piece at the St. James's, _Liberty Hall_, it
is a title absolutely thrown away. Mr. FORBES ROBERTSON is as good as
the part permits, and it is the Author's fault that he is not better.
Mr. GILBERT HARE gives a neat bit of character as the Doctor, and Mr.
DONALD ROBERTSON may by now have made something of the rather foolish
Clergyman (whether Rector, Vicar, or Curate I could not make out),
whose stupid laugh began by making a distinct hit, and, on frequent
repetition, became a decided bore. It is played in one Scene and three
Acts, and no doubt in the course of a fortnight certain repetitious
and needless lines will have been excised, and the piece will play
closer, and may be an attraction, but not a great one, for some time
to come. At all events, the part of _Valentine Barbrook_ will add
another highly-finished picture to Mr. HARE'S gallery of eccentric
comedy-character. I think of him with delight, and exclaim, once


       *       *       *       *       *

At Drury Lane the Baddeley Cake Meeting was a Goodly sight.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Symbol: Right-Pointing Hand] 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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