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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 93, October 15th 1887
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 93, October 15th 1887" ***

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    VOLUME 93, OCTOBER 15, 1887.

    _edited by Sir Francis Burnand._




    Hoctober, my 'arty, and 'ARRY, wus luck! 's back in town,
    Where it's all gitting messy and misty; the boollyvard trees is all
    Them as ain't gone as yaller as mustard. I _do_ 'ate the Autumn,
      dear boy,
    When a feller 'as spent his last quid, and there's nothink to do or

    Cut it spicy, old man, by the briny, I did, and no error. That Loo
    Was a rattler to keep up the pace whilst a bloke 'ad a brown left to
    Cleared me out a rare bat, I can tell yer; no Savings Bank lay about
    Yah!--Women is precious like cats, ony jest while you strokes 'em they

    Lor', to think wot a butterfly beauty I was when I started, old pal!
    Natty cane, and a weed like a hoop-stick, and now!--oh, well, jigger
      that gal!
    Cut me slap in the Strand ony yesterday, CHARLIE, so 'elp me,
      she did.
    Well, of sech a false baggage as Loo is, yours truly is jolly well rid.

    Wot a thing this yer Ochre is, CHARLIE! The yaller god rules
      us all round.
    Parsons patter of poverty's pleasures! I tell yer they ain't to be
    If you 'aven't the ha'pence you're nothink; bang out of it, slap up
      a tree.
    That's a moral, as every man as is not a mere mug must agree.

    They talks of "the Masses and Classes,"--old Collars is red on that
    There is ony two classes, old pal, them as 'as it and them as 'as not.
    The Ochre, I mean, mate, the spondulicks, call the dashed stuff wot
      you please.
    It's the Lucre as makes Life worth livin', without it things ain't
      wuth a sneeze.

    O CHARLIE, I wish I'd got millions! I _ought_ to be rich, and no kid.

    I feel I wos made for it, CHARLIE. To watch every bloomin' arf quid,

    Like a pup at a rat 'ole is beastly. Some stingy 'uns _carn't_ go the
    But I know I should turn out a flyer, and so ought to be in the race.

    Oh, it ain't every juggins, I tell yer, who's built for the bullion,
      dear boy!
    You must know the snide game that's called "Grab," you must know what
      it means to "enjoy."
    Neither one without tother's much use, but the true Ochre Kings are
      the chaps
    As can squeeze millions out of "the Masses." They win in life's game,
      mate, by laps.

    That's jest wot "the Masses" is made for; _them asses_ I calls 'em,
      old man,
    Same letters, same thing, dontcher know. Yus, Socierty's built on this
    Many littles makes lots, that's the maxim; and he is the snide 'un,
      no doubt,
    Who can squeeze his lot out of the littles of half the poor mugs
      who're about.

    Twig, CHARLIE, old twister? Yer sweaters, yer Giant
      Purviders, and such
    Is all on that lay. Many buds, and one big bloated Bee, that's the
    Wy, if bees was as many as blossoms, or blossoms as few as the bees,
    Him as nicked a whole hive to hisself would find dashed little honey
      to squeeze.

    The honey--or money--wants _massing_, that's jest wot the Masses
      can do--
    And the "Classes," my boy, are the picked 'uns, as know 'ow to put on
      the screw.
    That's the doctrine of "DANNEL the Dosser," a broken-down
      toff, as I know;
    And if DANNEL ain't right, I'm a Dutchman. _That's_ ow
      yer big money-piles grow.

    Rum party the Dosser is, CHARLIE--I can't make him out, mate,
      not quite.
    Laps beer, when he can, like a bricky, though brandy's his mark. His
    Is to patter to me about Swelldom, Socierty, wot he calls gammon--
    That's Ochre, dear boy, dontcher know. I suppose arf his gab is sheer

    He eyes me in sech a rum style, CHARLIE, sort of arf smile and
      arf sneer,
    Though he owns I'm a Dasher right down to the ground--when he's well
      on the beer.
    A pot and a pipe always dror him, and I'm always game to stand Sam,
    For his patter's A1, and I pump 'im,--a lay as he stands like a lamb.

    "You _ought_ to be rich, my young Cloten!" sez he. It's a part of
      his game
    To call me nicknames out of _Shakspeare_, and so on; but "Wot's in
      a name?"
    "My brain and your 'eart now together, would make a rare Dives," says
    I don't always know wot he means, and I doubt if _he_ does, poor
      old josser!

    'Owsomever, the Ochre's my toppic. Some jugginses talk about "Thrift,"
    Penny Savings' Bank bosh, and that stuff. Wouldn't 'ave their dashed
      brains at a gift.
    _Save_, hay,--out of two quid a week! No, it doesn't fetch me in
      that shape.
    You must _swag_ in this world to get rich; if yer carn't, it's no
      bottles to _scrape_.

    The Turf or the Stock Exchange, CHARLIE, would suit me, I'd trust
      to my luck,
    And my leariness, _not_ to get plucked like that silly young
      Ailesbury duck,
    Wot's life without sport? Wy, like billiards without e'er a bet or a
    And that's wy I'd be a Swell Bookie--that is if I carn't be a Dook.

    In fact if I 'ad my own chice, I should jest like to _double the
    As I fancy a few on 'em do. Oh, Jemimer! jest give me a start.
    With a 'undered or two, and the Ochre I'd pile 'twould take waggons to
    The world loses larks, mate, you bet, when among the stone-brokers is


       *       *       *       *       *

TURNING TO THE LEFT.--At a recent meeting of the Court of Common Council
(in the teeth of a strong opposition of some of the members of the
Board) it was decided to exclude strangers and the Press during a part
of the proceedings. The matter under secret consideration, it is said,
was the appointment by the Recorder of the Assistant-Judge of the
Mayor's Court. It is rumoured that, acting on the opinion of Mr. R. S.
WRIGHT, (with him the Attorney-General) the Court decided not to confirm
that appointment. But why all this mystery? What had the Councillors to
fear? Obviously, they could be doing nothing wrong if they were
sustained by WRIGHT!

       *       *       *       *       *





       *       *       *       *       *


(_A Lay of the Criminal Law Amendment Act._)

    "Shure it's BALFOUR would be troublin', meeself Lord Mayor o' Dublin,
      But every charge he makes I'll meet in fashion you'll call nate;
    For I'll face the accusation that he brings against the _Nation_,
      Attired from head to foot, my boys, in all my robes of State.

    "So on with hat and gown, boys, for we're goin' through the town, boys,
      And you must help your City's Chief to make a real display,"
    Thus TIM SULLIVAN he cried out, as straightway he did ride out,
      In civic pomp to near the Court on that eventful day.

    And Town Councillors in numbers, woke from their normal slumbers,
      And, donning gowns and tippets, rose and put on all they knew,
    And with approbation glancing at the City Marshal, prancing
      On a hired hack, they followed him, a rather motley crew.

    At length the Court they entered, when attention soon was centred,
      On a squabble that had risen about the Sword and Mace:
    For some swore they were not able to lie upon the table,
      Though the Lord Mayor hotly argued it was their proper place.

    So when 'twas shown quite plainly, after pushing for it vainly,
      Beyond the "bar" the civic baubles had to be conveyed,
    With vow that none should floor them, their guardians upstairs bore
      And in the front seats flaunted them conspicuously displayed.

    Then up stood Mr. CARSON, quite as quiet as a parson,
      And read out his indictment with a settled, stone-like face,
    Till TIM HEALY, quick replying, rose then and there, denying
      That the Counsel for the Crown had a shadow of a case.

    And then as legal brother argued each against the other,
      The while TIM SULLIVAN reclined in all his civic blaze,
    O'DONEL he looked vexed there, and he seemed somewhat perplexed there,
      As if the matter struck him as involved in doubtful haze.

    But after some reflection, with a _soupçon_ of dejection,
      He announced that he had settled (though, doubtless, mid some fears
    He might stir up BALFOUR'S fury), there was no case for a jury.
      His judgment was received in Court with hearty ringing cheers.

    Then, wild with exultation, up rose Mayor and Corporation,
      And, greeted by the crowd without, were cheered along the way,
    Til the Mansion House on nearing, the mob cried, 'midst their cheering,
      A speech they wanted, and would hear what he had got to say.

    Then TIM SULLIVAN he spouted;--the mob they surged and shouted,
      And the upshot of the speech was this, that if, through legal flaws,
    By any chance your way you see, to battle with the powers that be,
      You're hero both and martyr if you break the Saxon's laws.

    So it's no use, BALFOUR, troublin' the Civic powers of Dublin;
      For if you do, you know that they will meet you just half way;
    And if fresh accusation you but bring against the _Nation_,
      The City shure will answer with another Lord Mayor's Day!

       *       *       *       *       *


(_Before_ Mr. Commissioner PUNCH.)

_An Official of Epping Forest introduced._

_The Commissioner._ Now, Sir, what can I do for you?

_Witness._ You can confer a favour upon me, Sir, by correcting some
sensational letters and paragraphs on "Deer-Maiming in Epping Forest,"
that have lately appeared in the newspapers.

_The Commissioner._ Always pleased to oblige the Corporation. Well, what
is it?

_Witness._ I wish to say, Sir, that deer-shooting in Epping Forest, so
far as its guardians are concerned, is not a sport, but a difficult and
disagreeable duty?

_The Commissioner._ A duty?

_Witness._ Yes, Sir, a duty; because, in fulfilment of an agreement with
the late Lords of the Forest Manors (to whom we have to supply annually
a certain amount of venison), and in justice to the neighbouring
farmers, whose crops are much damaged by the deer, we are obliged to
keep down the herd to a fixed limit.

_The Commissioner._ But how about the stories of the wounded animals
that linger and die?

_Witness._ We have nothing to do with them--we are not in fault. I mean
by "we" those who have a right to shoot by the invitation of the proper

_The Commissioner._ But are not the poor animals sometimes wounded?

_Witness._ Alas, yes! Unhappily the forest is infested by a gang of
poachers of the worst type, and it is at their door that any charge of
cruelty must be laid. So far as we are concerned, we kill the deer in
the most humane manner. We use rifles and bullets, and our guns are
excellent shots. As no doubt you will have seen from the report of the
City Solicitor, such deer as it has been necessary to kill, have been
shot by, or in the presence of, two of the Conservators renowned for
their humanity and shooting skill.

_The Commissioner._ It seems to me that you should put down the

_Witness._ We do our best, Sir. You must remember the Corporation has
not been in possession very long. We have to protect nearly ten square
miles of forest land, close to a city whose population is counted by

_The Commissioner._ Very true. Can I do anything more for you?

_Witness._ Nothing, Sir. Pray accept my thanks for affording me this
opportunity of offering an explanation. I trust the explanation is

_The Commissioner._ Perfectly. (_The Witness then withdrew._)

       *       *       *       *       *



[Illustration: "I had one curried, and found it most
excellent--something like tender tripe."--_Extract from Mr. Tuer's

    "Devil-fish" of VICTOR HUGO,
    Dread _Pieuvre_ of caves where few go
      But are made your palsied prey,
    Where are now your gruesome glories,
    Dwelt upon in shocking stories?
    Realism a big bore is
      "Octopus is cheap to-day!"

    You who, worst of ocean's gluttons,
    Swallowed man, his boots, and buttons,
      Cooked in this familiar way?
    You who, in the tales of dreamers,
    Sucked down ships and swallowed steamers,
    Made the prey of kitchen schemers?
      "Octopus _is_ cheap to-day!"

    Swallowed, _you_ colossal cuttle?
    Nemesis is really subtle!
      Carted on the Coster's tray,
    Dressed in fashions culinary,
    Which the cunning _chef_ will vary
    After every vain vagary?
      "Octopus is cheap to-day!"

    Your huge arms, so strong, so many,
    Like tarantula's _antennæ_,
      Just like tenderest tripe, they say!
    Only wait a little longer,
    Turtle soup--as from the Conger--
    They will make from _you_, but stronger.
      "Octopus is cheap to-day!"

    Octopus--or is't Oct[=o]pus?--
    Fame, that should outshine CANOPUS,
      All too swiftly fleets away.
    Yet our feelings it must harrow,
    That _your_ demon-fame should narrow
    To cook-bench and coster barrow.
      "Devil-fish is cheap to-day!"

       *       *       *       *       *


("Is this the Hend?"--_Miss Squeers_.)


SKURRIE puts us in the train, gives us our COOK'S tickets all ready
stamped and dated. No trouble. Then he insists on comparing his notes of
our route with mine, to see that all is correct.

"Wednesday," he says, "that's to-day. Geneva _dep_. 12, Bâle _arr_.
7.45." He speaks a _Bradshaw_ abbreviated language. "Change twice,
perhaps three times, Lausanne, Brienne, Olten. Not quite sure; but you
must look out." Oh, the trouble and anxiety of looking out for where you
change! "Then," he goes on, "Thursday, Bâle _dep_. 9.2 A.M., Heidelberg
_arr_. 1.55."

"Any change?" I ask, as if I wanted twopence out of a shilling.

"No; at least I don't think so. But you had better ask," he replies. Ah!
this asking! if you are not quite well, and don't understand the
language (which I do not in German Switzerland), and get hold of an
austere military station-master, or an imbecile porter, and then have to
carry that most inconvenient article of all baggage, a hand-bag, which
you have brought as "so convenient to hold everything you want for a
night," and which is so light to carry until it is packed! "Then," goes
on the imperturbable SKURRIE, "you'll 'do' Heidelberg, dine there, sleep
there, and on Friday Heidelberg _dep_. 6 A.M.----"

Here I interrupt with a groan--"Can't we go later?"

"No," says SKURRIE, sternly. "Impossible. You'll upset all the
calculations if you do."

JANE says, meekly, that when one is travelling, and going to bed early,
it is not so difficult to get up very early, and, for her part, she
knows she shall be awake all night. Ah! so shall I, I feel, and already
the journey begins to weigh heavily on me, and I do not bless SKURRIE
and his plan. "But," I say aloud, knowing he has done it all for the
best, and that I cannot now recede, "go on."

He does so, at railroad pace:--"Heidelberg _dep_. 6. Mannheim _arr_.
7.5, _dep_. 7.15. Mayence _arr_. 8.22, in time for boat down the Rhine
8.55. Cologne _arr_. 4.30. And there you are."

"Yes," I rejoin, rather liking the idea of Cologne, "there we are--and

"Well, you'll have a longish morning at Cologne; rest, see Cathedral,
breakfast," and here he refers to his notes, "Cologne _dep_. 1.13 P.M.,
and Antwerp _arr_. 6.34."

"Change anywhere?" I inquire, helplessly. "Yes," he answers,
meditatively. "At this moment I forget where, but you've got examination
of baggage on the Belgian frontier, and you have two changes, I think.
However, it's all easy enough."

"I'm glad of that," I say, trying to cheer up a bit, only somehow I am
depressed: and Cousin JANE isn't much better, though she tries to put
everything in the pleasantest possible light, and remarks that at all
events "the travelling will soon be over."

SKURRIE continues reading off his paper and comparing the details with
my notes, "Sunday--Antwerp _dep_. 6.34 P.M. Rosendael _arr_.
7.45--yes--then Rosendael _dep_. 8.44, and catch the 10.10 P.M. boat at
Flushing. Queenborough _arr_. 5.50, fresh as a lark, and up to town by

"But we don't want to go up to town, we want to go to Ramsgate."

"Ha!" he says slowly, giving this idea as just sprung upon him his full
consideration. "Ha!--let me see----" Then, as if by inspiration, he
continues quickly--"sacrifice your London tickets, book luggage for
Flushing, only then at Flushing re-book it for Queenborough, and once
you're there you catch an early train to Ramsgate, and you'll be there
nearly as soon as you would have arrived in London. Train just off. Wish
you _bon voyage_."

I thank him for all his trouble, and ask, with some astonishment, if he
is not going to accompany us?

"Can't--wish I could," returns SKURRIE, "but I've got to go off to
Petersburgh by night mail. Business. Should have been delighted to have
looked after you and seen you through, but you've got it all down and
can't make any mistake. _Au plaisir!_"

And he is off. So are we.

Oh, this journey!! Everything changes. My health, the scenery, the
weather, all becoming worse and worse. Poor Cousin JANE, too.

Oh, the changes of carriage! The rushing about from platform to
platform, carrying that confounded bag, and sticks, and umbrellas, and
small things, of which JANE--poor JANE!--has her share, and, but for her
sticking to every basket and package, I should, in despair, have
surrendered to chance, left them behind me somewhere, and should have
never seen them again. All aches and pains, and weariness! At last at
Bâle, rattled over stones and bridge in a jolting omnibus, through
pouring rain to the hotel of "The Three Kings."

Our treatment in the _salle-à-manger_ of that Monarchical Hostelrie is
enough to make the most loyal turn republican. A willing head-waiter
with insubordinate assistants--and we are miserable.

Off early to Heidelberg. Delighted, at all events, to bid farewell to
the worthy Monarchs. This trip seemed to invigorate us, and if civility,
polite attention, good rooms, and an excellent _cuisine_ could make any
invalid temporarily better, then our short stay at the Prinz Karl
Hotel--a really perfectly managed establishment--ought to have revived
us both considerably. And so it did. A lovely drive to the heights among
the pine woods and in the purest air went for something, but alas the
knowledge that we had to rise at 5 A.M., to be off by six--it turned out
to be a 6.30 train--drove slumber from our eyes, and only by means of a
cold bath, the first thing on tumbling out of bed, could I brace myself
for the effort. Then on we went, taking SKURRIE'S pre-arranged tour.

Let the remainder be a blank.

When abroad I had bought a French one-volume novel which I had seen
praised in the _Figaro_. I will not give its name, nor that of its
author. If it indeed portrays persons really living in Paris, and if
these persons are not wholly exceptional (but, if so, why this novel,
which implies the contrary and denounces them?) then is the latest state
of Republican Paris worse than its former state in the days of the
_dégringolade_ of the Empire, and Paris must undergo a fearful purgation
before she will once again possess _mens sana in corpore sano_. I read
this disgusting novel half-way through until its meaning became quite
clear to me, and then I proceeded by leaps and bounds, landing on dry
places and skipping over the filth in order to see how the author worked
out a moral and punished his infamous scoundrel of a chief personage.
No. Moral there was none, except an eloquent appeal to Paris to rise and
crush these reptiles and their brood. On the wretched night when
feverish, ill, and sleepless, I lay miserably in the saloon of the
Flemish steamer crossing to Queenborough, I opened the porthole above me
and threw this infernal book into the sea. After this I bore the
sufferings of that night with a lighter heart.

       *       *       *       *       *

Suffice it that I arrived at home--and how glad I was to get
there--broken down, prostrate and only fit for bed----where with
railways running round and round my head, steamboats dashing and
thumping about my brain, the shrieks of German and Flemish porters
ringing in my ears, SKURRIE always forcing me to travel on, on, on,
against my will, I remained for about three weeks.

_Advice gratis to all Drinkers of Waters_.--"The story shows," as the
Moral to the fables of ÆSOP used to put it, that when you have finished
your cure, make straight by the easiest stages for the seaside at
home. Avoid all exertion: and ask your medical man before leaving to
tell you exactly what to eat, drink, and avoid, for the next three weeks
at least after the completion of your cure.

       *       *       *       *       *

While ill, but when beginning to crave for some amusement or
distraction, I asked that my dear old BOZ'S _Sketches_ should be read to
me, to which in years gone by I had been indebted for many a hearty
laugh. Alas! what a disappointment! Except for a little descriptive bit
here and there, the fun of these _Sketches_ sounded as wearisome and
old-fashioned as the humours of the now forgotten "Adelphi screamers" in
which Messrs. WRIGHT and PAUL BEDFORD used to perform, and at which, as
a boy, I used to scream with delight, when the strong-minded mistress of
the house, speaking while the comic servant was laying the cloth for
dinner, would say of her husband, "When I see him I'll give him----"
"Pepper," says the comic servant, accidentally placing that condiment on
the table. "He shan't," resumes the irate lady, "come over me with
any----" "Butter," interrupts the comic servant, quite unconsciously, of
course, as he deposits a pat of Dorset on the table. And so on. Later
on, I tried THACKERAY'S _Esmond_. How tedious, how involved, and full of
repetitions! It is enlivened here and there by the introduction of such
real characters as _Dick Steele_, _Lord Mohun_, _Dean Atterbury_, and
others, and by the mysterious melodramatic appearances and
disappearances of _Father Holt_, a typical Jesuit of the "penny
dreadful" style of literature. But the work had lost whatever charm it
ever possessed for me, and, indeed, I had always considered it an
over-rated book, not by any means to be compared with _Vanity Fair_,
_Pendennis_, or even with _Barry Lyndon_, which last is repulsively

       *       *       *       *       *

Then I asked for a book that I never yet could get through, and to which
I thought that now, with leisure and a craving for distraction, I might
take a liking. This was _Little Dorrit_. I tried hard, but it made my
head ache even more than _Esmond_ had done, and I laid it down, utterly
unable to comprehend the mystery which takes such an amount of dreary,
broken-up, tedious dialogue in the closing chapters to unravel.

       *       *       *       *       *

I took down WASHINGTON IRVING'S _Sketch-book_, and read it with
delight. Fresh as ever! It did me good. So did CHARLES LAMB'S Essays.
And then guess what moved me to laughter, to tears, and to real
heartfelt gratitude that we should have had a writer who could leave us
such an immortal work? What? It is a gem. It is very small, but to my
mind, and not excepting any one of all he ever wrote, the most precious
in every way for its true humour, for its natural pathos, and for its
large-hearted Christian teaching, is _The Christmas Carol_, by CHARLES
DICKENS. Had this been his only book, it would have sufficed for his
imperishable fame.

       *       *       *       *       *

And then what made me chuckle and laugh? Why, THACKERAY'S _Sultan Stork_,
which, somehow or other, I never remembered having read before this time
of convalescent leisure. It is THACKERAY in his most frolicsome humour,
and, therefore, THACKERAY at his best.

       *       *       *       *       *

I am almost recovered, and am finding my "Salubrity at Home."

       *       *       *       *       *




DEAR TOBY,--It was in my mind to write to you some days ago, but I have
had my time much occupied with a subject of domestic interest. In fact,
I have just been laying the carpet presented to me by our
fellow-citizens of the ancient and important community of Kidderminster.
The carpet, regarded individually, is a desirable and an acceptable
thing. It is, as you have observed in the newspaper reports, woven of
the wool known to the trade as the Queen's Clip. In colour it is a rich
damson, and in quality Wilton. Apart from its suitability and
acceptability, we here see in it the beginning of what I confess we
should be inclined to regard as a pleasing habit on the part of our
fellow-countrymen. As you are aware, my wife and myself have for some
years been the recipients of gifts consisting of what a well-known
person of the name of _Wemmick_ was accustomed to call, articles of
portable property. Our journeys to Scotland were always marked by the
presentation of gifts that even became embarrassing by reason of their
quantity and variety. We have quite a stock of Paisley shawls. Dundee
marmalade is a drug in our domestic market. Plaids, snuff-boxes,
walking-sticks, and, above all, axes I have in abundance. Through the
medium of an interesting periodical, of which you may have heard--(it is
known as _Exchange and Mart_)--we have managed to average our
possessions, a process not entirely free from adventure. In one instance
an unscrupulous individual, probably a member of the Primrose League,
succeeded in obtaining a two-dozen case of marmalade and a Scotch plaid
presented by the working-men of Glasgow, in promise, yet unfulfilled, of
delivery of a bicycle warranted new. I have rather a hankering after
trying a bicycle. LOWE gave his up with the ultimate remainder of his
Liberal principles. But in old times I have heard him speak with
enthusiasm of the exercise. When I noticed this person advertising in
_Exchange and Mart_ his desire of bartering his bicycle, we entered upon
the negotiation which has ended so unfortunately. He has our Paisley
plaid and Dundee marmalade, and we have not his bicycle.

This, however, by the way. What I had at heart to write to you about,
suggested by the Kidderminster carpet, is the new opening here offered
for manifestations of political sympathy at a serious political crisis.
We are, to tell the truth, towards the close of a long career, a little
overburdened with articles of portable property of the kind already
indicated. But our residence is large, and, if I may say so, receptive.
Carpets, though a not unimportant feature in the furnishing of a house,
do not contain within themselves the full catalogue of a furnishing

If Kidderminster has its carpets, there are other localities throughout
the Kingdom which have their tables and chairs, their bed-room
furniture, their curtains, their brass stair-rods, and their
gas-fittings. History will, I believe, look with indulgent eye upon an
ex-Premier, the Counsellor of Kings, the leader of a great Party,
assisting at the hauling in and laying down of an eleemosynary carpet,
the wool of which is made from Queen's Clip, has a rich damson colour,
and is of Wilton quality. Why should I not give a back to an arm-chair
presented by an admiring Liberal Association? or walk upstairs with a
bolster under either arm, token of the esteem and admiration of the West
of England Home Rulers?

I throw out these thoughts to you, dear TOBY, as I sit in my study and
survey the carpet of Wilton quality, which covers the floor. As you will
have seen in the newspaper reports, "on entering the room where the
carpet was displayed the Right Honourable Gentleman remarked that it had
a quiet tone, which was so pleasant to the eye; adding that it was a
great mistake, (which used to be committed about fifty years ago) when
carpets were made with staring patterns." It is, I need hardly say, the
growth of Liberal principles which has effected this change in the
public taste for carpets. Whether indeed, suppose we were in need of a
battle-cry, "Our Quiet Tones and Our Liberal Principles," would not
serve as opposed to "Toryism and Staring Patterns," I am not certain.
These things we must leave to the evolution of time. Meanwhile I will
not deny in the confidence of a friendly letter that we could very well
do with a sofa, the tone and construction of which should, of course,
match the carpet from Kidderminster. If you are attending any public
meeting and you find the popular indignation against the Government of
Lord SALISBURY rising to an ungovernable pitch, you might gently and
discreetly guide it in this direction.

    Always yours faithfully,

    _H-w-rd-n C-stle._      W. E. GL-DST-NE.

P.S.--A mangle and a garden-roller might later, and in due order, occupy
your kindly thought.

       *       *       *       *       *


_A Ballade for the Board._

    "The lobby of the Metropolitan Board of Works offices was
    recently the scene of a serious assault, committed by Mr.
    KEEVIL, upon Mr. SHEPHERD."--_Daily Paper_.

        Gentle SHEPHERD, tell me true,
          Did, selecting time and place,
        Wary KEEVIL go for you,--
          Hit you on the chest and face?
        Did he, waiting on the stairs,
          Watch until you passed him by,
        Then adroitly, unawares,
          Plant one on your weather eye?
        Did, O SHEPHERD, tell me true,
        Wary KEEVIL get at you!

        Gentle SHEPHERD, answer me,
          Say, did you, when last you spoke,
        Language use that possibly
          Wary KEEVIL might provoke?
        If so, p'raps 'twas not too wise,
          Though it could involve no right
        To attempt to black your eyes
          In a stand-up Board-Room fight!
        Ah! sweet SHEPHERD, sure his due
        He will get who went for you!

       *       *       *       *       *

        "PROUD O' THE TITLE."--The Bishop of LICHFIELD,
        in one of his speeches at the Church Congress last week,
        included the English Roman Catholics among the "other
        Nonconformists." Then his Lordship was graciously
        pleased to observe that he was very willing to acknowledge
        the QUEEN as supreme, but objected to the authority
        of Parliament, in Church matters. It is very evident on
        which side Dr. MACLAGAN would have been in the reign
        of the pure and pious HENRY THE EIGHTH, when that
        amiable monarch ordered the decapitation of those
        bigoted and obtuse "Nonconformists," Bishop FISHER,
        and Sir THOMAS MORE.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HARDLY FAIR.

       *       *       *       *       *


        _A Colloquy on the Canadian Shore._

        _Canada._ "Westward the course of empire takes its way."

        _Britannia._ The Bishop's famous line, dear, bears to-day
        Modified meaning; westward runs indeed
        The route of empire,--ours!

        _Canada._               If I succeed
        In drawing hither Trade's unfaltering feet
        And _yours_, my triumph then will be complete.

        _Britannia._ Across your continent from sea to sea
        All is our own, my child, and all is free.
        No jealous rivals spy around our path
        With watchfulness not far remote from wrath.
        The sea-ways are my own, free from of old
        To keels adventurous and bosoms bold.
        Now, from my western cliffs that front the deep
        To where the warm Pacific waters sweep
        Around Cathay and old Zipangu's shore,
        My course is clear. What can I wish for more?
        To your young enterprise the praise is due.

        _Canada._ The praise, and profit, I would share with you.
        Canadian energy has felt the spur
        Of British capital; the flush and stir
        Of British patriot blood is in our heart;
        Still I am glad you think I've done my part.

        _Britannia._ Bravely! Yon Arctic wastes no more need slay
        My gallant sons. Had FRANKLIN seen this day
        He had not slept his last long lonely sleep
        Where the chill ice-pack lades the frozen deep.
        "It can be done; England should do it!" Yes,
        That is the thought which urges to success
        Our struggling sore-tried heroes. WAGHORN knew
        Such inspiration. Many a palsied crew
        Painfully creeping through the Arctic night
        Have felt it fill their souls like fire and light.
        Well, it _is_ done, by men of English strain,
        Though in such shape as they who strove in vain
        With Boreal cold and darkness never dreamed
        When o'er the Pole the pale aurora gleamed
        Perpetual challenge.

        _Canada._       Here's your Empire route!
        A right of way whose value to compute
        Will tax the prophets.

        _Britannia._     Links me closer still
        With all my wandering sons who tame and till
        The world's wild wastes, and throng each paradise
        In tropic seas or under southern skies,
        See, Halifax, Vancouver, Sydney, set
        Fresh steps upon a path whose promise yet
        Even ourselves have hardly measured. Lo!
        Far China brought within a moon or so,
        Of tea-devouring London! Here it lies,
        The way for men and mails and merchandise,
        Striking athwart your sea-dividing sweep
        Of land; one iron road from deep to deep!
        Well thought, well done!

        _Canada._      No more need you depend
        On furtive enemy or doubtful friend.
        Your home is on the deep, and when you come,
        To the Dominion's land you're still at home.

        _Britannia._ And woe to him the Statesman cold or blind,
        Of clutching spirit or of chilling mind,
        Pedantic prig or purse-string tightening fool,
        Who'd check such work and such a spirit cool!
        Yours is the praise and may the profit flow
        In fullest stream, 'midst your Canadian snow
        A true Pactolus. Trade's prolific fruit,
        Should freely flourish on our Empire Route.

       *       *       *       *       *

LOADED WITH PRESENTS.--In the account given in the _Times_ (Oct. 7) of
the unveiling of Mr. BOEHM'S statue of the QUEEN in the presence of its
donors, HER MAJESTY'S tenants and servants on the Balmoral Estates
assembled at Crathie, there is a funny misprint:--

    "At this point (_i.e._ after HER MAJESTY'S reply to the Prince
    of WALES'S address) the soldiers saluted and fired a _feu de

As refreshments were supplied by the QUEEN'S command immediately
afterwards, perhaps the guns had been loaded with "_foie gras_," tightly
compressed into cartridges.




       *       *       *       *       *


ETHEL DERING has not recognised me yet. Naturally she would not expect
to find me being photographed on the beach with such a crew as this--but
she _will_ in another instant, unless,--ah, LOUISE'S sunshade! my
presence of mind never _quite_ deserts me. There is a slit in the
silk--through which I can see ETHEL. As soon as she discovers what the
excitement is all about, she turns away.... Thank goodness, she is gone!
I have saved the situation--but ruined the group ... they are all
annoyed with me. I had really no idea LOUISE looked so plain when out of

As we go back, ALF wants to know whether I noticed that "clipping girl."
He means ETHEL. LOUISE says, he "ought to know better than to ask me
such things, considering my situation." Agree with LOUISE.

_Evening_. I am staying at home; _nominally_, to work at the Drama
(still in very elementary stage) _really_, to think out the situation.
Remember now the DERINGS have a yacht; they _may_ only have put in here
for a day or two--if not, can I avoid being seen by her sooner or later?
The mere idea of meeting _her_ when I am with ALF or PONKING, and my
Blazer acquaintances, makes me ill. (Not that I need distress myself,
for she would probably cut me!) Can't think in Mrs. SURGE'S little front
parlour. I must get out, into the air! Let me see, LOUISE and her Aunt
(and no doubt PONKING and ALF) will be at the Music Hall this evening,
as there is a "benefit" with the usual "galaxy of talent." If I keep
away from the sands (where I might see ETHEL), I shall be safe enough.

[Illustration: "Why, he's a man of whacks!" _Shakspeare_.]

Turn into Public Gardens; nobody here just now, except a couple in
front, who seem to have quarrelled--at least the lady's voice sounds
displeased. Too dark to see, but as I come nearer--is it only my nervous
fancy that--? No, I can't be mistaken, that _is_ ETHEL speaking now!
"Why will you persist in speaking to me?" she is saying, "I don't know
you--have the goodness to go away at once." Some impudent scoundrel is
annoying her! Didn't know anything could make me so angry. I don't stop
to think--before I know where I am, I have knocked the fellow down ...
he can't be more surprised than _I_ am! It is all very well--but what is
to become of me when he _gets up again?_ He is sure to make a row, and I
can't go _on_ knocking him down! Must get ETHEL away first, should not
like to be pounded into shapelessness before her eyes. "Miss DERING," I
say, "you--you had better go on--leave him to me," (it will probably be
the other way, though!) "Mr. CONEY!" she cries. "Oh, I am so glad!--but
don't hurt him any more--_please_." He is getting up, as well as I can
make out in the darkness, I am not _likely_ to hurt him any more ... I
wish he would begin, this suspense is very trying. He _has_ begun--to
weep bitterly! Never was so surprised in my life; he is too much upset
even to swear, simply sits in the gutter boohooing. If he knew how
grateful I am to him! However, I tell him sternly to "think himself
lucky it is no worse," and leave him to recover.

Must see ETHEL safe home after this. She and her father _did_ come in
the yacht--they are at the Royal Hotel, and she missed her way and her
maid somehow, trying to find a Circulating Library. She really seems
pleased to meet me. It is not an original remark--but _what_ a delight
it is to listen to the clear fresh tones of a well-bred girl--not that
ETHEL's voice is anything to me _now!_ She "can't imagine what I find to
do in Starmouth,"--then she did _not_ recognise me this afternoon, which
is some comfort! I should like to tell her all, but it would be rather
uncalled-for just now, perhaps. We talk on general matters, as we used
to do. Singular how one can throw off one's troubles for the time--I am
actually _gay!_ I can make _her_ laugh, and what a pretty rippling laugh
she has! We have reached the Hotel--_already!_

[Illustration: "So many guests invite as here are writ."--_Shakspeare_.]

Now I am here, it would be rude not to go in and see old DERING. I do.
He is most cordial. Am I alone down here? Critical, this. After all, I
_am_ alone--in my lodgings. "Then I must come to luncheon on board the
_Amaryllis_ to-morrow." ETHEL (I _must_ get into the way of thinking of
her as "Miss DERING") looks as if she expects me to accept. I had better
go, and find an opportunity of telling her about LOUISE--who knows--they
might become bosom friends. No, hang it, _that's_ out of the question!

The DERINGS' private room opens on to the Esplanade; old DERING comes to
the French windows, and calls out after me, "Don't forget. Lunch at two.
On board the _Amaryllis_--find her at the quay." "Thanks very much--I
_won't_ forget. Good-night!" "Good-night!" Someone is waiting for me
under a lamp. It is ALF, but I did not know him at first. "Why, where on
earth!"--I begin. He regards me reproachfully with his one efficient
eye, and I observe his nose is much swollen. Good heavens, I see it
all--I have knocked down my _future brother-in-law!_ Well, it serves him

He explains, sulkily; he meant no harm; never thought anyone would be
offended by being spoken to civil; _he_ never met girls like that before
(which is likely enough); and to think I should have treated him that
savage and brutal--it was _that_ upset him. Tell him I am sorry, but I
can't help it now. "Yes you can," he says, hoarsely. "You know this
girl--this Miss DERIN'," (he has followed us, it appears, and caught her
name)--"you don't ought to play dog in the manger _now_--I want you to
introduce me in a reg'lar way. I tell yer I'm down-right smitten."
Introduce _him_--to ETHEL! Never, not if I won the V.C. for it! "Then
you _look out!_"

He has gone off growling--the cub! He will tell LOUISE. On second
thoughts, his own share in the business may prevent that--but it is

_Next Day_.--Have got leave of absence (without mentioning reason). I
believe I pleaded the Drama, as usual, and I _have_ jotted down a line
or two. Am dressing for luncheon--somehow I take longer than usual.
Ready at last; the coast is clear, I am a trifle early, but I can stroll
gently down to the quay.... Turn a corner, and come upon PONKING, with
LOUISE. Fancy both look rather confused, but they are delighted to see
me. "Was I going any where in particular?" "No--nowhere in particular."
"Then I'd better come along with them--they have dined early, and are
doing the lions." LOUISE makes such a point of it that I can't
refuse--must watch my chance, and slip off when I can.

_Later_.--We have done an ancient gaol, the church, and a fishermen's
almshouse--and I have not seen my chance _yet_. PONKING determined to
see all he can for his money. LOUISE, more demonstrative than she has
been of late, clings to my arm. It is past two, but we are working our
way, slowly, towards the quay. PONKING suggests visit to Fisherring
Establishment. Now is my chance; say I won't go in--don't like
herrings--will wait outside. To my surprise, they actually meet me
half-way! "If you want to get back to your play-writing, old chap," says
PONKING (really not a bad fellow, PONKING!) "don't you mind _us_--we'll
take care of one another!" Just as deliverance is at hand, that infernal
ALF comes up from the quay, with an eye that is positively _iridescent!_
"Oh, look at his poor eye!" cries LOUISE. I look--and I see that he
means "_being nasty_." He addresses me: "Why ain't you on board your
swell yacht, taking lunch along with that girl, eh?" he inquires.
Exclamations from LOUISE: "Girl? yacht? who? what?" and then--it all
comes out!

[Illustration: Thrown over at a Watering-place.]

Painful scene; fortunate there are so few looking on. LOUISE renounces
me for ever opposite the Town-hall. "She knew I was a muff, but she had
thought I was too much the gentleman to act deceitful!" PONKING is of
opinion I "haven't a gentlemanly action in me." So is ALF, who adds that
he "always felt somehow he could never make a pal of me." There is balm
in _that!_

Thank goodness, it is over! I am _free_--free to think of ETHEL as much
as I like! I see now what a wretched infatuation all this has been. I
can tell her about it some day--if I think it necessary. I am not sure I
_shall_ think it necessary--at all events, just yet.

I am a little late, but I can apologise for that. Odd--but I can't find
the _Amaryllis_ anywhere! Ask. A seaman on a post says "There _was_ a
yacht he see being towed out 'bout 'arf an hour back--he didn't take no
partickler notice of her name." No doubt I mistook the moorings--better
ask at hotel, perhaps. I do. Waiter says if I am the gentleman by name
of CONEY, there are two notes for me in Coffee-Room.

Open first--from Mr. DERING.

"Regrets; unforeseen circumstances--compelled to sail at once, and give
up pleasure, &c."

Second--from ETHEL; there is hope still--or would she write?

[Illustration: A love-lorn Romeo ready for his Beer.]

"Dear Mr. CONEY,--So sorry to go away without seeing you. You might have
told me of your engagement yourself, I think--I should have been so
interested. Your brother-in-law and his aunt thought it necessary to
call and inform us. We are delighted that you are having a pleasanter
time here than you gave us to understand last night. With best wishes
for all possible happiness," &c.

So _that_ was ALF'S revenge--it was a good one! After that, I shake off
the sand of Starmouth--for ever!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A GOOD EXAMPLE.


       *       *       *       *       *


_Crowd discovered besieging entrance to Staircase. Policeman examines
bags for concealed Dynamite._

_Loyal Old Lady (presenting reticule for inspection)._ Which there's
nothing in it but a few cough-drops.

_Policeman (exercising a very wise discretion)._ Pass on, Mother!


_'Arry (to Halfred--taxing his memory)._ I dunno as I was ever 'ere
before--was _you?_

_Halfred (conscientiously)._ Not to remember.

_A Deliberate Old Gentleman, full of suppressed general information (to
his two boys)._ Now, the great thing is not to hurry--we shall find much
deserving of careful study here.
                                  [_Faces of boys lengthen perceptibly._

_An Aunt (to Niece)._ You'd better go first, ELIZA; then you can read it
all out to me as we go along.

_Confused Murmurs_--"Where's Grandma?"--"It _is_ ridiklous to go pushing
like that!"--"Well, the Pit's a joke to this!" &c., &c.


_Delib. O. G._ This, boys, is the ante-room, and here, you see, is a
trophy presented by the Maha----
                                   [_Puts on glasses, to inspect label._

_Policeman (loudly)._ Now then, Sir, don't block the way, please,--keep
              [_O. G. moves on, under protest, to secret relief of boys._

_The Aunt (examining pair of Elephant Tusks set in carved Buffalo's
Head)._ They may call them "tusks" if they like, ELIZA,--but anyone can
see they're horns. They belong to one of them "Cow-Elephants," depend
upon it!
                [_Peers anxiously about in vain attempt to discover it._

_Loyal Old Lady._ There's nothing here but these caskets. I thought
they'd the Jubilee Cake on view!

_Visitor (in state of general gratification)._ Ha! they've given her
some nice things among 'em, I must say. There, you see,--an
arm-chair,--always come in useful, they do!

_Female V._ JANE, come here, quick! (_They gaze reverentially on carved
chest full of slippers._) That's what I call a _nice_ present,
now,--but, if they were mine, I should unpick all that raised embroidery
inside the soles before ever I put 'em on!

_Jane._ Well, I suppose she wouldn't only wear them when she's in

_Policeman._ Now, Ladies, please don't linger! Pass along, there!

_The Well-informed Old G._ You see this device, formed of green and
yellow feathers, boys. Well, these feathers come from----

_Policeman (as before)._ Don't stop the way, Sir, please!

_Old G. (hanging on obstinately to barrier)_----The Sandwich Islands,
and are worn exclusively by--(_is swept on by crowd, and wedged tightly
against case containing samples of woollen products--boys dive under red
cord, and escape_).

_Two Ladies (from the country)._ Those Policemen is like so many
parrots, with their "Keep moving;" they don't give you time for a good
look! _That's_ a handsome pair of jugs the Crown Prince and Princess
give her, a little like the pair old Mr. SPUDDER won with his Shorthorns
at the Show, don't you think? Only more elaborate, p'raps. Tell me if
you can see the Cake anywhere, my dear. I don't want to go away, and not
see _that!_

_Intelligent Visitor._ That's a curious thing, now. Look at that label,
"Presented by----" and the name left blank!

_A Jocular Visitor (seeing an opportunity)._ Too bad, MARIA! I'm sure we
wrote our names plainly enough!

[_Sensation amongst bystanders, who regard the couple with respectful

_Maria (who considers this trifling with a serious subject)._ If I had
known you were going to be so _foolish_, GEORGE, I should not have come!

[_Collapse of_ GEORGE.

_A Practical Visitor._ Now, there's a neat idea--d'ye see? A crown, made
all out of tobaccer. There's some _sense_ in giving a thing like that!

_The Jocular Visitor (reviving at sight of embroidered Child's Frock in
case)._ Pretty costume, that, eh, MARIA? But do you think HER GRACIOUS
MAJESTY will ever be able to _get it on?_

_Maria (horrified)._ I tell you what it is, GEORGE, if you go on making
these stupid jokes, you will get us both turned out--if not _worse!_ I'm
sure that Policeman heard!

_Loyal Old Lady._ They've given her scent, and little brass-nailed
boots, and cotton reels enough to set her up for life. But there, she
deserves it all, bless her!

_Party of Philistines (to one another.)_ You don't want to go in
there--there's only a lot of water-colours presented by the British
Institute. Let's see if we can find the Jubilee Cake!


_Crush of enthusiastic Britons, gazing at a gigantic ornament from the
Jubilee Cake. Various exclamations._ "All of it pure sugar, I shouldn't
wonder!"--"What do you think of _that_ for a cake, JEMMY?"--"Lift JOEY
up to have a look!"--"Well, I do call that grand!"

_Loyal Old Lady (forcing her way to the front--disappointedly)._ But
that's only the _trimmings!_

_A Bystander (correctively)._ You can't expect any Cake to keep long,
with so many in the family; and, even as it is, you get some ideer what
it must have been!

_All (deeply impressed)._ Ah, you do, indeed--you get that! Well, I'm
glad I came; I shan't forget this as long as I live!

[_Exeunt awestruck--their places are taken by others, who gaze long and
respectfully on the Cake. Scene closes in._

       *       *       *       *       *


(_At the Middlesex Hospital._)

Just been given what the newspapers call "the privileges and status of a
true Collegian,"--in other words find I'm no longer to be allowed to
live in the jolly old free-and-easy way, in one's own diggings, but am
to be boxed up inside the Hospital instead! Hang the Authorities! Should
like to cup them all.

Anyhow, got a decent room: can show it off to visitors. Visit from
Oxbridge friend. Seems surprised at smallness of my apartment. Says it's
"not _his_ idea of living in College: more like living in _Quad_," he
adds, humorously. "Do I really mean to say," he asks, "that I am to
sleep in same room I live in, with only a curtain between?" Have to
confess such is the intention of the architect. He says, "if he was me,
he'd complain to the Dean." Don't like to show ignorance--so don't ask
him if he means Dean of WESTMINSTER or ST. PAUL'S. Oxbridge friend
declines my invitation to "dine in Hall," and disappears.

Ah! They've given us a Smoking-room, anyhow. Is it a smoking-room? No--a
"Library and Reading-room." Disgusting! Ring for brandy-and-soda. Nobody
answers the bell! It seems the "Collegiate servants" go out of College
between meals. Nothing to do, so amuse myself for an hour in
Dissecting-room. Pine for freedom. Go to entrance and am stopped by
Porter. Porter says, "Gentlemen not allowed to leave Hospital after dark
without leave of House Surgeon." Tell Porter I'm a child of nature, and
that I want to visit a dying relative. Porter incredulous--proposes
sending one of the resident Physicians instead. No, thanks! Retire to
room and think of old rollicking days. Nothing to do. Wonder if Porter
would let me bleed him. No, perhaps he's not in the vein.

_Hall Dinner._--Hate dining in common--reminds one of the Zoo. Student
next to me very sloppy. Brings a bone in with him, and puts it on table,
studying it between courses. Tell him, pleasantly, it'll be a bone of
contention if he does not remove it. He doesn't understand. Replies,
quite seriously, that it's the "_os humeri_."

_After Dinner._--Tedious. Just the time when the "Lion Comique" is
"coming on" at the Parthenon Music Hall. And I can't get out to hear

_Later._--Had jolly spree, after all--also after Hall. Tied new curtains
together and let myself down into street, amid yells of large crowd.
Rather damaged right scapula, but can't be helped. Went to Gaiety; jolly
supper, met Ben Allen and a lot of chappies, who are at Bart's and
haven't any of these ridiculous Collegiate regulations, and had high old
time. How to get back, though? Ay, "there's the rub,"--worse than
rubbing scapula, too.

Boldest plan best. Rap Porter up. Porter surprised to see me. Says it's
"past one o'clock," and wants to know how I got out. Tell him I'm a
child of nature, and if he reports me to House Surgeon I shall certainly
cup him to-morrow. Porter asserts, quite untruly, that I am intoxicated.

_Next Day._--Authorities have heard how I escaped from Hospital last
night. Also Porter--the idiot!--has complained that he goes in fear of
his life because of my threats. On the whole, Hospital Authorities come
to conclusion to ask me to leave, as "they think I am not fitted for
Collegiate life," and I quite agree with them. Pack up, and pack off.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "UNCO GUID!"

_Southerner (in Glasgow, to Friend)._ "BY THE WAY, DO YOU KNOW MCSCREW?"


       *       *       *       *       *

QUITE A LITTLE HOLIDAY.--The unfortunate Vacation Judge this year has
been detained at Court or Chambers five times a week instead of (as in
the olden days) thrice a fortnight. He must appreciate the meaning of
"getting his head into Chancery"--and his wig too!

       *       *       *       *       *



(_For the benefit of Bolton._)

Two bellicose goats once encountered each other in the middle of a
narrow bridge spanning a deep gulf and a raging torrent. To pass each
other seemed (to them) impossible, at least without much more careful
and courteous mutual self-adjustment than either was at all disposed
for. For one or the other to make way by temporarily backing, was, of
course--to bellicose goats--entirely out of the question. The only
alternative was clearly a butting-match.


Our angry goats entered upon it with great gusto. Heads hotly
encountered, horns angrily collided. The harder the hits the less did
either feel disposed to give way.

But a narrow bridge over a deep gulf is a bad place for a battle _à
outrance_. The infuriated animals quickly settled the point at issue, in
a way as final as unpleasant, by butting each other over into the gulf,
leaving the disputed path clear for the passage of creatures more
conciliatory and less cantankerous.


Two objects cannot occupy the same space--even in Bolton. Battles upon
bridges--even iron bridges--are bad things. A quarrel between two
parties--even if they represent Capital and Labour--cannot be regarded
as satisfactorily settled by the destruction of both--unless they are
thieves, or Kilkenny cats. It is much easier to get into a gulf--even
the gulf of Bankruptcy--than out of it. To parties expiring at the
bottom of a gulf, into which they have hurled each other, it is small
consolation to see more peaceful persons--though they be
foreigners--making better use of the bridge which might have carried
them both safely over.

       *       *       *       *       *


_A Collection of Thackeray's Letters_ (1847 to 1855. SMITH & ELDER).--It
must have cost Mrs. BROOKFIELD a good deal of mental anxiety before she
decided upon giving publicity to this correspondence. But she has
undoubtedly done well and wisely, as everybody interested in the
personal THACKERAY, outside and away from his works, will gratefully
acknowledge. THACKERAY was always fond of alluding to himself as the
Showman with the puppets, or portraying himself as taking off the
cap-and-bells when, from behind the grinning mask, peep out the sad eyes
and the rueful countenance. Now in these Letters we are sometimes
admitted behind the scenes, as, for instance, when he is just going to
work; but, as a rule, we see him in his leisure, out for a holiday,
amusing himself and others, and enjoying himself like an overgrown
schoolboy full of fun and frolic, not a bit of a cynic, and there are no
sad eyes and rueful countenance when the mask is off. The peculiar charm
of these Letters is that they are so evidently private; there is nothing
of the _poseur_ about them. They were never intended to be addressed
_urbi et orbi_.

One favourite style of amusing himself in writing he had, which, by the
way, rather calls to mind the way _Mr. Peter Magnus_ had of amusing his
friends, and that was mis-spelling, and spelling in Cockney fashion. How
he must have revelled in writing _Jeames's Diary!_ The burlesque element
of humour was irrepressible in THACKERAY, and found vent through pen and
pencil. Nearly all his sketches, with remarkable exceptions, are, more
or less, grotesque. Many of his Vignettes, with which he illustrated his
novels, cannot fail to suggest a kind of Dicky-Doyleian humour. Two
characteristics of the man are brought out strongly in these letters;
first, his humility as regards his own work (he was proud in other
matters), and, secondly, his generosity as exhibited in his unaffected
admiration for the work of CHARLES DICKENS.

Occasionally we catch a glimpse of his religious tendencies, which are
at one time influenced by J. H. NEWMAN, at another by J. S. MILL; and it
is interesting to read his _naïve_ utterances about Scripture, showing
that whatever lectures he may have attended at Cambridge, those on
Divinity, or on the Greek Testament, could not have been among them. And
this indeed is highly probable. His kindness of heart is evident
throughout. His laughing at himself as a Snob when affecting the company
of great people is delightful, though there seems to be in this
self-ridicule something of the true word spoken in jest. He makes a
burlesque flourish--so like him--about sending in "his resignation" to
_Mr. Punch_. As a matter of fact, he remained an honorary member of _Mr.
Punch's_ Cabinet Council, and retained his seat at _Mr. Punch's_ table,
up to the time of his death. The present writer remembers WILLIAM
MAKEPEACE THACKERAY being frequently present in _Mr. Punch's_ Council
Chamber, _Consule Marco_. A most interesting, amusing, and instructive
book, especially to literary men--(some novelists must be delighted at
finding THACKERAY reading over the previous portions of his own serial
in order to recall the names of his characters, and his frantic joy at
hitting on the title of _Vanity Fair_)--is this collection of
THACKERAY'S Letters. To Mrs. BROOKFIELD our heartiest thanks are due.

_Like and Unlike_. By Miss BRADDON. Everybody who cares about a novel
with a good plot so well worked out that the excitement is kept up
through the three volumes and culminates with the last chapter of the
story, must "Like" and can never again "Unlike," this the latest and
certainly one of the best of Miss BRADDON'S novels. Miss BRADDON is our
most dramatic novelist. Her method is to interest the reader at once
with the very first line, just as that Master-Dramatist of our time DION
BOUCICAULT would rivet the attention of an audience by the action at the
opening of the piece, even before a line of the dialogue had been
spoken. This authoress never wastes her own time and that of her reader,
by giving up any number of pages at the outset to a minute description
of scenery, to a history of a certain family, to a wearisome account of
the habits and customs of the natives, or to explaining peculiarities in
manners and dialect which are to form one of the principal charms of the
story. No: Miss BRADDON is dramatic just as far as the drama can assist
her, and then she is the genuine novelist. A few touches present her
characters living before the reader, and the story easily developes
itself in, apparently, the most natural manner possible. _Like and
Unlike_ will make many people late for dinner, and will keep a number of
persons up at night when they ought to be soundly sleeping. These are
two sure tests of a really well-told sensational novel. _Vive_ Miss


       *       *       *       *       *


Shade of BOSWELL, awake, arise! Know that the Lord Mayor of Lichfield,
Mr. A. C. BAXTER, has announced in the _Times_ that the house Dr. JOHNSON
was born in is put up for sale by auction on the 20th inst. Now, then,
is the time for a big brewer who would like to get bigger, or any
licensed victualler, with command of a moderate capital, to invest it in
the purchase of the premises in which the great Lexicographer and
Moralist first saw the light, and in the conversion of them into a
public-house, to be called and known by the sign and name of "The
Johnson's Head." A likeness of Dr. JOHNSON, copied by a competent Artist
from the best of Sir JOSHUA REYNOLDS'S portraits, and mounted on the
signboard, would be sure to attract multitudes of respectable people,
and others, besides forming a decoration of the tavern at Lichfield, and
an ornament to that town. A pub. associated with one of the highest
names in literature could hardly fail to be frequented by numerous
bookmakers. The memory of Dr. JOHNSON might, however, be honoured by the
preservation of his home for what many may consider a nobler purpose
than that of a liquor-shop; and those who are of that opinion should
look sharp and secure his birthplace by coming forward, and taking care
that, when under the hammer, it shall be knocked down on their own
account to the highest bidder. "The man who could make a pun would pick
a pocket;" true, but he might prefer putting his hand in his own to
commemorate the name of the great SAMUEL, by helping to stand Sam.

       *       *       *       *       *

NOVEMBER.--_Sauce à la Maître d'Hôtel_.

       *       *       *       *       *


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.

Transcriber's notes:

P. 179. changed shoppy to sloppy.

p. 180. 'developes' (sic): probably not an error.
"and the story easily developes itself"


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