Title: Punch, or the London Charivari - Volume 107, December 1, 1894
Author: Various
Language: English
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        PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

                 VOL. 107.

             DECEMBER 1, 1894.



 ICHABOD.

    As over London Bridge I went
      A constable I spied:
    His head upon his breast was bent,
     Against the parapet he leant,
    He gazed upon the stream intent,
      And as I passed he sighed.

    "What ails thee, officer?" I cried
      In sympathetic tone.
    "What sorrow in thy soul is bred?
    Nay, never shake thy mournful head,
    But tell me of thy woes instead--
      Thou shalt not weep alone."

    He eyed me for a moment's space
      In half-suspicious doubt;
    But reading not a single trace
    Of aught but pity in my face,
    He told me of his hapless case
      And poured his sorrows out.

    "Time was, not many months ago"--
      His voice began to quiver--
    "When, in a stately march and slow,
    The tide of traffic used to flow
    In floods as full as that below"--
      He pointed to the river.

    "From early dawn to dewy night
      It still blocked up the way:
    The creaking wain, the hansom light,
    The gaudy bus, in colours bright,
    The gilded coach, the buggy slight,
      And e'en the donkey-shay.

    "Amid the throng I took my stand,
      I watched them come and go.
    Anon the serried lines I scanned,
    Anon I raised a warning hand,
    And lo! at my supreme command
      The flood forgot to flow!

    "The bus, the cab, the coach, the fly,
      Were motionless and still.
    In all the crowds that passed me by
    Was no one of degree so high
    That dared my sovereignty defy,

    "The hansom hasting on her way
      Paused when she heard my call.
    The coster checked his donkey-shay,
    The gartered lord his prancing bay--
    All, all were subject to my sway,
      My word was law to all.

    "Alas! alas! 'tis thus no more!
      Gone is my pride and power!
    Where thousands passed in days of yore
    Across the bridge, we've scarce a score,
    For now the tides of traffic pour
      Round by the busy Tower.

    "And I am left to mourn alone
      The glories that are fled.
    None heed me now--alas! not one!
    My life is lived! my day is done!
    _Othello's_ occupation's gone--
      Ah! would that I were dead!"

    He ceased. The manly voice broke down.
      I could no longer stay,
    But, as I hurried off to town,
    I pressed upon him half-a-crown,
    And joyed to see the hopeless frown
      Die for a while away.


        *       *       *       *       *


 [Illustration: THE ADVANTAGE OF HIGHER EDUCATION.

 _Eton Boy (who has come to see his Brother at Harrow)._ "I SAY, THESE
 FLOODS ARE STUNNING! WE'RE ALL SENT HOME, FOUR WEEKS BEFORE THE TIME!"

 _Harrow Boy (gloomily)._ "I WISH TO GOODNESS THE GOV'NOR HAD SENT _ME_
 TO ETON. WE'RE UP ON A BEASTLY HILL HERE, AN' NO CHANCE OF ANY
 FLOODS!"]


        *       *       *       *       *



 "THE RAIDERS."--Sure as _our_ Raiders know, just one hundred and nine
 persons, suspected of resorting to the Albert Club, in Bolt Court,
 Fleet Street, for the purposes of betting,--much as their betters do
 elsewhere,--were arrested by the police and walked off to Bridewell.
 Ominous names for the locality! As they weren't sufficiently "fleet" to
 run away they couldn't "bolt," and so were all "caught!"


        *       *       *       *       *



 NOMINIS UMBRA.

    What's this? Discoloured, left by chance
      Within this dusty letter-rack--
    Dear me! The programme of a dance
      Which I took part in ten years back!
    "The Towers, Rigden," at that date
      The Denvers' house. Sir CHARLES has flitted
    Since then to some secluded State
      Where creditors are not admitted.

    There's not, observe, a single blank;
      Behold what energy was mine
    Ten years ago! I used to rank
      A waltz as something quite divine;
    All night its mazes I pursued--
      At least (this statement more precise is)
    With but a pleasing interlude
      For mild flirtation, "cup," and ices.

    And then, my partners--twice, I see,
      I danced with FLORENCE SMITH, who's wed
    Sir CROESUS since, and "ETHEL V."--
      Ah, poor Miss VIVIAN, yes--she's dead.
    "Miss JOHNSON"--I remember _her!_
      She told me man was quite demented,
    A Sarah-Grand-Philosopher
      Before "New Women" were invented.

    And others follow. Though I'm sure
      I'm fairly certain as to them,
    Here is a mystic signature,
      For who, in wonder's name, was "M."?
    I danced with her four times! My word,
      What said her chaperon judicial?
    "MAY"? "MARY"? "MURIEL"? It's absurd,
      I _cannot_ construe that initial!

    I wonder, vaguely, where we met,
      And how it was we came to part,
    And whether I have left her yet
      A permanently-injured heart;
    Well, faded programme, you may go,
      To tear you up at once were better;
    But yet--I'd greatly like to know
      The meaning of that mystic letter!


        *       *       *       *       *



 Parliamentary Aspiration.

 (_By Jeremy Micawber Diddler._)

 Of the (£)300, grant but three, I'll make a shape for paid M.P.


        *       *       *       *       *


 [Illustration: A LECTURE ON TEMPERANCE.

 "My empty friends, I see you were all drunk last night. This _can_ not
 occur again!"]


        *       *       *       *       *



 LINES TO A LADY.

 (_A Misappropriator's Apology._)

    My dear Miss B., I cannot rest by day,
      At night I never sleep,--or not for long.
    The reason is, it grieves me much to say,
      I've done what I'm afraid you'll think is wrong.

    I've stolen something--don't, I beg you, laugh,
      For I'm a thief--I trust I do not _look_ it.
    You missed when I went off a photograph?
      Prepare for a surprise, 'twas I who took it!

    How did I do it? Well, the day I left
      I got down early--half an hour or more
    Before you knew it. That's why you're bereft
      Of that one photograph from out your store.

    Yes--I have sinned, and suffered on the rack
      Of agonised remorse, although I trust I
    May be forgiven. I'll send the portrait back
      If that's the only way. But tell me--must I?

        *       *       *       *       *



 "QUITE A LITTLE 'OLIDAY."--Last Saturday the _Times_ notified one
 "HENRY HOLIDAY" officially in "editorial" type that, as regards the
 "calumny refuted," everything having been explained, apologised for,
 and generally settled all round, they meant to give the subject a
 complete holiday, but that as regarded the gentleman of that name who
 wrote to say "he wasn't satisfied," the _Times_ must treat _him_ as a
 "_Dies non_."

        *       *       *       *       *


 [Illustration: _Mr. G._ "I MAY FIND THIS EMINENTLY SERVICEABLE FOR
 EXAMINING THE LIBERAL MAJORITY."

 ["Mr. GLADSTONE has become an honorary member of the Guildford
 Microscopic Natural History Society."--_Daily Papers._]]

        *       *       *       *       *


 [Illustration: A MATTER FOR CONSIDERATION.

 SCENE--_Jones doing Honeymoon Driving Tour in Ireland. His Leader has
 just got one of the reins under his tail, and is lashing out
 vigorously_.

 _Jones._ "HERE! HI THERE! CATCH HOLD OF HIM! HANG IT ALL, CATCH HOLD
 OF HIM!"

 _Pat_. "BEGORRA THIN, WAS IT THIS IND YE'D BE AFTHER WANTIN' ME TO
 HOULD?"]


        *       *       *       *       *



 THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS.

    If you want a receipt for that Popular Mystery
      Known to the world as our own Grand Old Man,
    Take all the Titans and Crichtons of history,
      Rolling 'em all into one--if you can.
    Take JULIUS CÆSAR and TIGLATH-PILESER,
      BRASIDAS, "BONEY," and General BOOTH,
    HOMER and HORACE, and TUPPER and MORRIS,
      CICERO, CALVIN, and LOUIS KOSSUTH;
    GORGIAS, SANCHEZ, Sir ARCHIBALD ALISON,
      PLATO, AUGUSTINE, and W. STEAD,
    With--but mere catalogue moveth man's malison,
      Be _all_ Biography "taken as read";
    Then, if you've lumped the Divine and Philosopher,
    Sophist, and Casuist clever to gloss over,
    Orator, Essayist, Scholar and Bard,
    Best Swordsman or "Pug" who e'er fenced, smote, or sparred,
    Toppers too many by far to enumerate.
    Melt them all down to a splendid conglomerate;--
    _Then_ you will find your ingenious plan
    Misses nine-tenths of our own Grand Old Man.

    Yes! GILBERT'S Heavy Dragoon, though a paragon,
      Was not a patch on our own Grand Old Man.
    Dulcet as hydromel, tart as fresh Tarragon;
      Homeric in wrath in the scrimmage's van,
    Horatian at home and at ease,--_merum nectar_,
      (As SCALIGER said of that sweet Ode to Pyrrha,)
    Fierce as ALONZO the Brave's fiery spectre,
      Or mild as a lute or the lark's tirra-lirra!
    Male CLEOPATRA, whom "age cannot wither,"
      Whose wondrous variety custom can't stale,
    All round the Universe, hither and thither,
      Rambles his genius, aged but hale.
    Jam and geology, pious "apology"
      For tiny flaws in the arms of theology.
    Anti-Besantine attacks on Theosophy;
      _Obiter dicta_ on Art and Philosophy;
    HUXLEY-defiance on errors of Science,
    And----
      Ah! What is this? Why an optic appliance!
    Not MILTON'S great optic tube, nor Lord ROSSE'S,
    But--something to peer at a microbe's proboscis.
    A marvel of high-polished glittering brasses,
    And soft-winding screws, and adjustable glasses;
    A small world of wheels as a galaxy shiny,
    Admitting the gaze to a world yet more tiny
    Of butterfly down and midge-stomachs and wings!

    Well, WILLIAM, old friend, 'tis the day of small things,
    Most of the matters on which prints are topical,
    Strike a large intellect as--Microscopical!
    Jove--or Achilles--the world now delivers
      To myrmidons ant-like who swarm, fume and fuss.
    Parties seem split into sections and slivers,
      Each of which bellow, "The first place for Us!"
    Mutually angry and all-round abuse-full.
    So you may find your new instrument useful,
    To--shall we say--gauge the New Leaders' authority,
    Or look at that small, dwindling Liberal majority?


        *       *       *       *       *



 RUBINSTEIN.

    Since PAGANINNI, fingers never wrought
      Such marvels in the mystic realm of sound
    As his who from the ringing keyboard brought
      A world of wondrous wizardry, which bound
    E'en ignorance in an astonished rapture.
      That world is closed, whose magic "sesame"
    He only held, where he alone could capture
      The spirits of strange woe and witching glee,
    And set them sounding in dull human ears.
    Music whose memory moves our smiles and tears.


        *       *       *       *       *



 New Nursery Rhyme.

 (_On the New (Nursery) Art._)

    Hey! 'Tis a riddle,
    A do and a diddle,
      A fad, and a lunatic lune;
    A scrawl and a smudge,
    And in fact arrant fudge,
     To be kicked to Art's limbo--and soon.


        *       *       *       *       *



 Monetary Multum in Parvo.

    Do not spend your life in _spending_;
     _Borrow_ never, promptly _pay_;
    _Save_--but not with toil unending;
      _Give_--but wisely--what you may:
    He who lends himself to _lending_,
      Gives himself away.


        *       *       *       *       *



 The Journalistic Jettatura.

    IBSEN is angry that some Paul Pry
    Has "blown the gaff" on his _Evil Eye_.
    Personal prattle and egotist bounce,
    These great IBSEN may well denounce.
    Not to bewitch, but to swagger and spy,
    Is the basilisk task of _our_ "Evil I."


        *       *       *       *       *



 LYRE AND LANCET.

 (_A Story in Scenes._)

 PART XXII.--A DESCENT FROM THE CLOUDS.

 SCENE XXXII.--_In the Elizabethan Garden._ TIME--_About_ 11 A.M.; LADY
 MAISIE _and_ UNDERSHELL _are on a seat in the Yew Walk_.

 _Lady Maisie_ (_softly_). And you really meant to go away, and never
 let one of us know what had happened to you!

 _Undershell_ (_to himself_). How easy it is after all to be a hero!
 (_Aloud._) That certainly _was_ my intention, only I was--er--not
 permitted to carry it out. I trust you don't consider I should have
 been to blame?

 _Lady Maisie_ (_with shining eyes_). To _blame?_ Mr. BLAIR! As if I
 could possibly do that!! (_To herself._) He doesn't even see _how_
 splendid it was of him!

 _Und._ (_to himself_). I begin to believe that I can do _no_ wrong in
 her eyes! (_Aloud._) It was not altogether easy, believe me, to leave
 without even having seen your face; but I felt so strongly that it was
 better so.

 _Lady Maisie_ (_looking down_). And--do you still feel that?

 _Und._ I must confess that I am well content to have failed. It was
 such unspeakable torture to think that you, Lady MAISIE, _you_ of all
 people, would derive your sole idea of my personality from such an
 irredeemable vulgarian as that veterinary surgeon--the man SPURRELL!

 _Lady Maisie_ (_to herself, with an almost imperceptible start_). I
 suppose it's only natural he should feel like that--but I wish--I _do_
 wish he had put it just a little differently! (_Aloud._) Poor Mr.
 SPURRELL; perhaps he was not exactly----

 _Und._ Not _exactly!_ I assure you, it is simply inconceivable to me
 that, in a circle of any pretensions to culture and refinement, an
 ill-bred boor like that could have been accepted for a single moment
 as--I won't say a Man of _Genius_, but----

 _Lady Maisie_ (_the light dying out of her eyes_). No, _don't_--don't
 go on, Mr. BLAIR! We were all exceedingly stupid, no doubt, but you
 must make allowances for us--for _me_, especially. I have had so few
 opportunities of meeting people who are really distinguished--in
 literature, at least. Most of the people I know best are--well, not
 exactly _clever_, you know. I so often wish I was in a set that cared
 rather more about intellectual things!

 _Und._ (_with infinite pity_). How you must have pined for freer air!
 How you must have starved on such mental provender as, for example, the
 vapid and inane common-places of that swaggering carpet-soldier,
 Captain--THICKSET, isn't it?

 _Lady Maisie_ (_drawing back into her corner_). You evidently don't
 know that Captain THICKNESSE distinguished himself greatly in the
 Soudan, where he was very severely wounded.

 _Und._ Possibly; but that is scarcely to the point. I do not question
 his efficiency as a fighting animal. As to his intelligence, perhaps,
 the less said the better.

 _Lady Maisie_ (_contracting her brows_). Decidedly. I ought to have
 mentioned at once that Captain THICKNESSE is a very old friend of mine.

 _Und._ Really? _He_, at least, may be congratulated. But pray don't
 think that I spoke with any personal animus; I merely happen to
 entertain a peculiar aversion for a class whose profession is
 systematic slaughter. In these Democratic times, when Humanity is
 advancing by leaps and bounds towards International Solidarity,
 soldiers are such grotesque and unnecessary anachronisms.

 _Lady Maisie_ (_to herself, with a little shiver_). Oh, why does
 he--why _does_ he? (_Aloud._) I should have thought that, until war
 itself is an anachronism, men who are willing to fight and die for
 their country could never be quite unnecessary. But we won't discuss
 Captain THICKNESSE, particularly now that he has left Wyvern. Suppose
 we go back to Mr. SPURRELL. I know, of course, that, in leaving him in
 ignorance as you did, you acted from the best and highest motives; but
 still----

 _Und._ It is refreshing to be so thoroughly understood! I think I know
 what your "but still" implies--why did I not foresee that he would
 infallibly betray himself before long? I _did_. But I gave him credit
 for being able to sustain his part for another hour or two--until I had
 gone, in fact.

 _Lady Maisie._ Then you didn't wish to spare _his_ feelings as well as
 ours?

 _Und._ To be quite frank, I didn't trouble myself about him; my sole
 object was to retreat with dignity; he had got himself somehow or other
 into a false position he must get out of as best he could. After all,
 he would be none the worse for having filled My place for a few hours.

 _Lady Maisie_ (_slowly_). I see. It didn't matter to you whether he was
 suspected of being an impostor, or made to feel uncomfortable, or--or
 anything. Wasn't that a little unfeeling of you?

 _Und._ Unfeeling! I allowed him to keep my evening clothes, which is
 more than a good many----!

 _Lady Maisie._ At all events, he may have had to pay more heavily than
 you imagine. I wonder whether---- But I suppose anything so unromantic
 as the love affairs of a veterinary surgeon would have no interest for
 you?

 _Und. _ Why not, Lady MAISIE? To the Student of Humanity, and still
 more to the Poet, the humblest love-story may have its
 interesting--even its suggestive--aspect.

 _Lady Maisie._ Well, I may tell you that it seems Mr. SPURRELL has long
 been attached, if not actually engaged, to a maid of mine.

 _Und._ (_startled out of his self-possession_). You--you don't mean to
 Miss PHILLIPSON?

 _Lady Maisie._ That _is_ her name. How very odd that you---- But
 perhaps Mr. SPURRELL mentioned it to you last night?

 _Und._ (_recovering his sang-froid_). I am hardly likely to have heard
 of it from any other quarter.

 _Lady Maisie._ Of course not. And did he tell you that she was here, in
 this very house?

 _Und._ No, he never mentioned _that_. What a singular coincidence!

 _Lady Maisie._ Yes, rather. The worst of it is that the foolish girl
 seems to have heard that he was a guest here, and jumped to the
 conclusion that he had ceased to care for her; so she revenged herself
 by a desperate flirtation with some worthless wretch she met in the
 Housekeeper's Room, whose flattery and admiration, I'm very much
 afraid, have completely turned her head!

 _Und._ (_uncomfortably_). Ah, well, she must learn to forget him, and
 no doubt, in time---- How wonderful the pale sunlight is on that yew
 hedge!

 _Lady Maisie._ You are not very sympathetic! I should not have told you
 at all, only I wanted to show you that if poor Mr. SPURRELL _did_
 innocently usurp your place, he may have lost---- But I see all this
 only bores you.

 _Und._ Candidly, Lady MAISIE, I can't affect a very keen interest in
 the--er--gossip of the Housekeeper's Room. Indeed I am rather surprised
 that _you_ should condescend to listen to----

 _Lady Maisie_ (_to herself_). This is really _too_ much! (_Aloud._) It
 never occurred to me that I was "condescending" in taking an interest
 in a pretty and wayward girl who happens to be my maid. But then I'm
 not a Democrat, Mr. BLAIR.

 _Und._ I--I'm afraid you construed my remark as a rebuke; which it was
 not at all intended to be.

 _Lady Maisie._ It would have been rather uncalled for if it had been,
 wouldn't it? (_Observing his growing uneasiness._) I'm afraid you don't
 find this bench quite comfortable?

 _Und._ I--er--moderately so. (_To himself._) There's a female figure
 coming down the terrace steps. It's horribly like---- But that must be
 my morbid fancy; still, if I can get Lady MAISIE away, just in case----
 (_Aloud._) D--don't you think sitting still becomes a
 little--er--monotonous after a time? Couldn't we----

    [_He rises, spasmodically._

 _Lady Maisie_ (_rising too_). Certainly; we have sat here quite long
 enough. It is time we went back.

 _Und._ (_to himself_). We shall meet her! and I'm almost sure it's----
 I _must_ prevent any---- (_Aloud._) Not _back_, Lady MAISIE! You--you
 promised to show me the orchid-house--you did, indeed!

 _Lady Maisie._ Very well; we can go in, if you care about orchids. It's
 on our way back.

 _Und._ (_to himself_). This is too awful! It _is_ that girl PHILLIPSON.
 She is looking for somebody! Me! (_Aloud._) On second thoughts, I don't
 think I _do_ care to see the orchids. I detest them; they are weird
 unnatural extravagant things. Let us turn back and see if there are any
 snowdrops on the lawn behind that hedge. I love the snowdrop, it is so
 trustful and innocent, with its pure green-veined---- _Do_ come and
 search for snowdrops!

 [Illustration: "Do come and search for snowdrops!"]

 _Lady Maisie._ Not just now. I think--(_as she shields her eyes with
 one hand_)--I'm not quite sure yet--but I rather fancy that must be my
 maid at the other end of the walk.

 _Und._ (_eagerly_). _I_ assure you, Lady MAISIE, you are quite
 mistaken. Not the _least_ like her!

 _Lady Maisie_ (_astonished_). Why, how can you possibly tell that,
 without having seen her, Mr. BLAIR?

 _Und._ I--I meant---- You described her as "pretty," you know. This
 girl is plain--distinctly plain!

 _Lady Maisie._ I don't agree at all. However, it certainly is
 PHILLIPSON, and she seems to have come out in search of me; so I had
 better see if she has any message.

 _Und._ She hasn't. I'm _positive_ she hasn't. She--she wouldn't walk
 like _that_ if she had. (_In feverish anxiety._) Lady MAISIE, shall we
 turn back? She--she hasn't seen us _yet!_

 _Lady Maisie._ Really, Mr. BLAIR! I don't quite see why I should run
 away from my own maid!... What is it, PHILLIPSON?

    [_She advances to meet_ PHILLIPSON, _leaving_ UNDERSHELL
    _behind, motionless._

 _Und._ (_to himself_). It's all over! That confounded girl recognises
 me. I saw her face change! She'll be jealous, I _know_ she'll be
 jealous--and then she'll tell Lady MAISIE everything!... I wish to
 Heaven I could hear what she is saying. Lady MAISIE seems agitated....
 I--I might stroll gently on and leave them; but it would look too like
 running away, perhaps. No, I'll stay here and face it out, like a man!
 I won't give up just yet. (_He sinks limply upon the bench._) After
 all, I've been in worse holes than this since I came into this infernal
 place, and I've always managed to scramble out--triumphantly, too! If
 she will only give me five minutes alone, I _know_ I can clear myself;
 it isn't as if I had done anything to be _ashamed_ of.... She's sent
 away that girl. She seems to be expecting me to come to her.... I--I
 suppose I'd better.

    [_He rises with effort, and goes towards_ Lady MAISIE _with a
    jaunty unconsciousness that somehow has the air of stopping
    short just above the knees_.


        *       *       *       *       *



 COUNTING NOSES.

 [Illustration]

    Between nose and nose a strange contest arose
      Concerning the smells from a brewery.
    Some thought them like Eau de Cologne, whilst their foes
      Denounced them as sickly and sewery.
    'Twixt the Rhine, which (see COLERIDGE) washes Cologne,
      And that sweet "Cologne water" that scents it,
    How now shall the difference truly be known?
      Strange comparison! Reason resents it!
    Oh! what _is_ an odour, and what is a "stink"?
      (As the outspoken schoolboy will dub it.)
    If man's nose is asked to decide, well, I think,
      In puzzlement pure man must--rub it!
    If the fragrance of "grains" will to some suggest drains,
      And to others bright Bendemeer's roses,
    Sanitation's big problem a puzzle remains,
      Since it all seems a question of noses.


        *       *       *       *       *



 NEW DIRECTOR TO ROYAL COLLEGE OF MUSIC.--"Who would succeed Sir GEORGE
 GROVE?" that was the question. The answer to the inquiry was, "Who but
 PARRY?" Whereupon HUBERT PARRY was appointed. Now, all music at the
 College, of whatever nationality, will be taught _à la mode de Parry_.


        *       *       *       *       *



 OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

 [Illustration]

 Some people are disposed to deny to Mr. GLADSTONE a sense of humour.
 They will surely reconsider their judgment in view of the fact that the
 late PREMIER made the author of _Work and Wages_ (LONGMANS) a
 Lord-in-waiting to the QUEEN. The volume contains in handy form a
 series of addresses and papers spoken and written by Lord BRASSEY
 during the last quarter of a century. They disclose profound knowledge,
 not only of the principles that underlie the connection between Work
 and Wages, but of the everyday practices that sometimes control it.
 Throughout, the book is marked by a broad spirit and statesmanlike view
 which, if more common, would make strikes much more uncommon. As Mr.
 GEORGE HOWELL in his introduction points out, when in 1869 the young
 member for Hastings (not yet Lord BRASSEY) addressed the House of
 Commons on the subject of Trade Unions there were very few members who
 knew anything about the subject, except that they did not like it. Mr.
 BRASSEY, the son of one of the greatest employers of labour of the day,
 had the breadth of mind to recognise the right of industrial
 organisation representing labour, and lived to see the ban against
 trades unions removed by the House of Commons. The book is, my Baronite
 says, the most valuable contribution to the intricate question
 discussed of any recently published. Truly a most remarkable work for
 an ex-lord-in-waiting. We shall next hear of Mr. "BOBBY" SPENCER coming
 out with a treatise on the Solar Parallax.

 "With delight," writes a young Baronite, "the ordinary schoolboy turns
 from even Old ÆSOP'S words of wisdom to the ever-blissful fascinations
 of cowboys, Red Indians, and all the untrammelled pleasures of ranch
 life which are to be met with in following _The Great Cattle Trail_, by
 EDWARD S. ELLIS (CASSELL & CO.); and certainly life appears very, so
 very interesting, when you can be a hero with Buffalo Bill effect."

 _Five Stars in a Little Pool_, by EDITH CARRINGTON (CASSELL & CO.),
 suggests lives and billiards, but that is the wrong cue to give, except
 that it is five little stories in black on white, "red" is added when
 you've finished the book.

 CASSELL & CO. evidently, or, says a Baronite fresh from school,
 "_Ovid_ently" put a new construction on "_Ars est celare Artem_," for
 in their _Magazine of Art_ it is clearly shown not only what Art does
 but how it does it. The etchings and photogravures are charming. There
 is a capital article on stage costumes, and among them is found the
 original idea out of which the fashionable Serpentine dance was
 twirlingly evolved.

 Most little people will be much amused by the waggish tale of _Toby_,
 by ASCOTT R. HOPE. He is not of course _Mr. Punch's_ "Toby," _cela va
 sans dire_. There cannot be two Tobies. It is "Toby or not Toby," and
 there is no "question" about it. This Toby, to whom _the_ Toby never
 stood godfather, gives us the benefit of his amusing opinions. He is
 brought out by INNES (& CO.), and is one of the daintiest dogs in the
 Dainty Book Series. So much for _Toby_.

 Any who read the first series of _Eighteenth Century Vignettes_, by
 AUSTIN DOBSON, will eagerly welcome a second series issued by the same
 publishers, Messrs. CHATTO AND WINDUS. Of all writers at work to-day,
 Mr. AUSTIN DOBSON is most profoundly steeped in the literary essence of
 the Eighteenth Century, and is most successful in reproducing its
 flavour. In writing about SWIFT, RICHARDSON, Dr. JOHNSON, or the
 topography of HUMPHREY CLINKER (a learned, yet most mellow
 disquisition), he does not condescend to the easily-acquired trick of
 introducing archaic words, or inverting sections of phrases with which
 we are familiar in the works of some other artists on the same broad
 pavement. Yet, withal, there is in the literary style of these pleasant
 chats round about the old writers, booksellers and bookbuyers, a
 certain distinct Eighteenth Century flavour. So intimate is Mr. DOBSON
 with the ways, the personal appearance, the dress, the daily
 environment, and the little gestures of the more or less mighty dead,
 that he is able to recall them to startlingly vivid life. His picture
 of SWIFT writing to STELLA from his bed in the back room of a first
 floor in Bury Street, St. James's, is a masterpiece of live
 portraiture.

                                        THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.


        *       *       *       *       *


 [Illustration: A SNUB.

 _Hypatia Roland (to the Brown's Parlourmaid)._ "CALL ME A HANSOM,
 PLEASE."

 _Cadby._ "I'M GOING YOUR WAY, MISS ROLAND. WE MIGHT GO TOGETHER."

 _Miss Roland._ "_TWO_ HANSOMS, PLEASE!"]


        *       *       *       *       *



 "ALL'S WELL!"

 A DUET.

 _Re-arranged (for Lion and Bear) after Dibden._

    ["Several Russian newspapers publish articles ... declaring
    that an Anglo-Russian understanding would be of enormous
    advantage to the respective interests of the two nations,
    besides promoting European peace."--_Times._]

 _Spoken._

 _Russian Bear_ (_with effusion_). Now this is really delightful!

 _British Lion_ (_cordially_). Most charming, I'm sure!

 _R. Bear._ What I've longed for for ages!

 _B. Lion._ What I've wished for centuries!

 _R. Bear._ Strange how long we have been separated by pure prejudice!

 _B. Lion._ Though our respective dens are so conveniently situated for
 mutual calls, and genial interchange of love and liquor!

 _R. Bear._ Why, I like you _immensely_, now I see you near.

 _B. Lion._ And I'm _enormously_ taken with _you_, at close quarters.

 _R. Bear._ You have little of the Lion but its magnanimous courage.

 _B. Lion._ And you have nothing of the Bear but its skin.

 _R. Bear._ The kind things you have been saying about me lately have
 quite _touched_ me.

 _B. Lion._ Don't mention it. You deserved 'em all. Delighted to render
 any little civilities to a near neighbour, especially in time of
 trouble.

 _R. Bear_ (_much moved_). A thousand thanks! Leo! Let me embrace you.
 No longer afraid of my hug, are you?

 _B. Lion._ Not a bit of it! Oh! this is something _like_ a "Russian
 Advance!!!"

 _R. Bear._ And this is indeed a right "British Greeting!!!"

 _B. Lion_ (_aside_). Wonder what the Gallic Chanticleer thinks of
 _this!_

 _R. Bear_ (_aside_). Fancy the Teutonic Eagle eyes us a leetle
 jealously.

 _B. Lion_ (_aloud_). Well, let us meet often, Bruin, and talk things
 over amicably.

 _R. Bear_ (_aloud_). We will, Leo, we will. Ah! _what_ a pity we
 _didn't know each other before!_

 _B. Lion._ Yes, indeed. However, All's well that ends well!

 _R. Bear._ "All's Well!" Ah! Cue for song! Let us warble!

 _They sing:_--

    Converted (rather late than soon),
    We peace proclaim,--thrice blessed boon!
    We meet, as friends, on common ground;
    On sentry go no more tramp round;
    And _should_ our footsteps haply stray,
    Where treaties mark the warded way,--
      "Who goes there?"--
              Stranger quickly tell,--
      "A friend!"
          "The word!"
              "_Comrades!_"
                  "ALL'S WELL!"

    Or, steaming on the briny deep,
    Watch each on each we scarce need keep
    From off the ironclad's steel deck,
    Lest mutual foes meet common wreck.
    Lord, no! If a strange hull draw near,
    A _friendly_ voice salutes each ear.
      "What cheer?"--
              Ho, brother, quickly tell!--
      "Above!"
          "Below!"
              "_Messmates!_"
                  "ALL'S WELL!!!"

 _1st Singer_ (_crescendo_). A-a-a-a-a-_bove!_

 _2nd Singer_ (_diminuendo_). Be-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-LOW!!

 _Tutti_ (_fortissimo_). A-A-A-A-LL'S WELL!!!

    ["_So mote it be!_" adds _Mr. P._]


        *       *       *       *       *



 OLLENDORFIAN.

 (_Example of the Very Latest French Exercise._)

 Our neighbour has many Colonies. The Colonies of our neighbour are very
 productive. Why should we not have (some) productive Colonies? The cook
 is more valiant than the lion. Let us send the Ambassador to the bad
 Queen. The bad Queen has pulled the nose of the Ambassador. She is very
 obstinate, but she is not very amiable. The soldiers, the sailors, the
 ships, the stores, and the ammunition will soon arrive. The island has
 a very good soil, but not a very good climate. Why have the soldiers
 and the sailors not yet marched to the capital? Because the soldiers
 and the sailors have all got the fever. Why have they got the fever?
 Because our neighbour is wicked. Does it rain like this every day? Yes,
 it rains every day in the wet season. Which, then, is the dry season in
 the island? There is no dry season in the island. It is right to live
 for glory. There is much glory in shooting barbarians. When the island
 is conquered, who will go and live in it? My tailor, my butcher, my
 wife's mother (the mother of my wife), and all my creditors, I hope,
 will go and live in it. We are not so rich as we once were. Why are we
 not so rich as we once were? Because we have spent all our money in
 trying to have big Colonies like our neighbour. If our neighbour is so
 wicked, why should we imitate him? He is only wicked because he has
 (the) big Colonies.


        *       *       *       *       *


 [Illustration: "ALL'S WELL!"

 BRITISH LION AND RUSSIAN BEAR (_together_). "WHAT A PITY WE DIDN'T KNOW
 EACH OTHER BEFORE!"]


        *       *       *       *       *


 [Illustration: POLITICS AND GALLANTRY.

 _First 'Arry._ "HAY, WOT'S THIS 'ERE ROSEBERY A TORKIN' ABAAT? BLESS'D
 IF HE AIN'T A GOIN' TO DO AWY WITH THE LORDS!"

 _Second 'Arry_ (_more of a Don Juan than a Politician_). "DO AWY WITH
 THE 'OLE BLOOMIN' LOT O' LORDS, IF HE LIKES, AS LONG AS HE DON'T DO AWY
 WITH THE LIDIES!"]


        *       *       *       *       *



 TALK À LA MODE DE LONDRES.

 SCENE--_Interior of a Suburban Railway Carriage._ BROWN, JONES _and_
 ROBINSON _discovered reading papers_.

 _Brown._ Wonderful this war between China and Japan. And all arising
 out of the Corea. By the way, where is the Corea?

 _Jones._ Oh, close to Port Arthur. Haven't you seen the maps in the
 paper?

 _Brown._ Yes, but they begin, so to speak, in the middle. Of course I
 know where the Corea is for about a hundred miles all round, but what's
 beyond?

 _Robinson_ (_looking over the top of his paper_). I fancy Russia.
 That's evidently why the Russians took such an interest in the row. You
 see, of course, they want an entrance into the Mediterranean from the
 Black Sea, and if the Corea were definitely annexed by the Japanese,
 what would become of Sebastopol?

 _Brown._ Why, you are thinking of the Crimea.

 _Robinson._ I suppose I am.

    [_Resumes the reading of his paper._

 _Jones._ But still the Russians do take an interest in the quarrel. Or
 rather did; for, now that the Muscovites are on such excellent terms
 with us, it doesn't much matter what happens.

 _Brown._ Of course not. Such good taste of the CZAR to make the Prince
 a Colonel of the Kiel Hussars, and saying, too, that his bride was
 English, not German. The new Emperor thoroughly appreciates the value
 of an English alliance. And you see France, too, wants to join it.

 _Jones._ Then that will put everything right about Egypt, Madagascar,
 and Afghanistan.

 _Robinson_ (_emerging from his paper_). I never could see the use of
 the Suez Canal. No more could Lord Palmerston. And couldn't we get to
 India quite as quickly by the Pacific Railway?

 _Brown_ (_doubtfully_). I think not; although, of course, it shortens
 the route to Australia. I fancy it wouldn't help us much with Egypt.

 _Jones._ Why, the Pacific Railway is in Canada--isn't it?

 _Robinson._ I suppose it is.

    [_Returns to the perusal of his paper._

 _Brown._ Not that the Pacific Railway isn't useful. You see, the
 Americans are waking up, and even proposed to intervene in the
 Chino-Japanese controversy. That shows they have abandoned the old
 policy of keeping themselves to themselves.

 _Jones._ Of course that's impossible. You see that while we are so
 violently in favour of free trade, we must take an interest in
 transatlantic politics.

 _Brown._ Yes, there is a good deal in what you say, and I suppose on
 account of the fall in silver we all must be careful.

 _Robinson_ (_emerging from his paper_). Perhaps it is connected with
 bi-metallism.

    [_Train enters tunnel, and in the rattle the talk subsides._


        *       *       *       *       *



 THE NOVELIST'S VADE MECUM.

 (_Compiled by a Publisher with strong views on the Subject._)

 _Question._ Which do you prefer--a novel in three volumes, or in one
 single tome?

 _Answer._ That is a matter that entirely depends upon terms.

 _Q._ Then you are indifferent as to length?

 _A._ In everything save the figures of a cheque.

 _Q._ But is not Art your first consideration?

 _A._ Certainly, when it leads to a substantial balance at my bankers.

 _Q._ Then you write for your living?

 _A._ Certainly, or I shouldn't live at all.

 _Q._ Which do you prefer--a story produced in parts, or a story
 published as a whole?

 _A._ Again a question of terms. Still, if remuneration is equal,
 sketches of character are easier than construction of plot.

 _Q._ When is the latter necessary?

 _A._ When the novel is written for a serial, and is published with the
 standing announcement (frequently repeated), "to be continued in our
 next."

 _Q._ Is it difficult to sketch character?

 _A._ Not if you do not mind irritating your friends and driving your
 foes into lunacy.

 _Q._ How do you irritate your friends?

 _A._ By reproducing in an amusing manner their peculiarities.

 _Q._ And how do you madden your foes?

 _A._ By passing them over in a dead silence, and sternly refusing to
 recognise their existence.

 _Q._ How should you treat your contemporaries?

 _A._ If you appreciate your work at its proper (that is to say, your
 _own_) value, you will not admire contemporaries.

 _Q._ And what will you say of authors of the past?

 _A._ That it is fortunate that they did live in the past, as they
 certainly do not exist in the present, and will certainly not revive in
 the future.

 _Q._ How should you criticise a contemporary's novel?

 _A._ If you are sure of his influencing a criticism of your own work
 favourably, praise his romance sky high. If he is, from a reviewer's
 point of view, a negligable quantity, why, treat him on that basis.

 _Q._ Then what is your motto?

 _A._ "Nothing for nothing."

 _Q._ Do you consider a novelist's life the best possible form of
 existence?

 _A._ I should say yes if I did not know of a form of existence to be
 even better.

 _Q._ And what is that?

 _A._ Inheriting a fortune, putting your hands in your pockets, and for
 the rest of your life doing nothing.


        *       *       *       *       *


 [Illustration: PREHISTORIC PEEPS.

 A LITTLE COVERT SHOOTING. (DRAGONS PLENTIFUL, AND STRONG ON THE WING.)]



 AMARE, O!

 (_By an Usher._)

    With weary brain I hear again
      The drowsy urchins stammer, O,
    From _mensa_ down through every noun
      That's in the Latin grammar, O!
    And when declensions pall, why then,
      The exercise to vary, O,
    I bid them show how well they know
      My sweet, sweet verb, _Amare_, O!

    "_Amo_, _amas_,--I love a lass,"
      Her dainty name is NANCY, O,
    And none but she shall ever be
      The darling of my fancy, O!
    _Amavi_--well, in love I fell,
      And sure 'twas no vagary, O,
    For since that day I've learnt the way
      To conjugate _Amare_, O!

    I whisper now, "_Ama_, Love thou!"
      Amongst the fields of barley, O,
    And NANCE replies, with brimming eyes,
      "I love, I love thee, CHARLIE, O!"
    _Amo_, _ama_, the livelong day
      I'll teach my winsome fairy, O,
    For has not she resolved with me
      To conjugate _Amare_, O?


        *       *       *       *       *


 [Illustration: CAUTION.

 _The Major._ "DON'T YOU LIKE LIQUEURS, MRS. JINKS?"

 _Mrs. Jinks._ "YES; BUT THEY MAKE ONE SO _UNRESERVED_!"]


        *       *       *       *       *



 AD JOVEM PLUVIUM.

    ["Ju Plu has been in his best form lately."--_Sporting Paper._]

    ENGLAND farewell, when showers of rain
      From dewy eve to dawn pour,
    I fly across the heaving main
      To Aden or to Cawnpore.

    The deep floods hide my native land,
      No more as land I rank it,
    I envy on some foreign strand
      The brown man in his blanket.

    Through sandy deserts he may roam,
      But bright suns shine for him there,
    And if he wants to reach his home
      He never has to swim there.

    There would I dwell, away, away
      I fly, these floods disdaining,
    Where Jupiter can rule the day
      Without a thought of raining.


        *       *       *       *       *



 SONG TO BE SUNG AT THE RECEPTION OF M. ALPHONSE DAUDET (_when he comes,
 and may it be soon!_).--"We all love 'JACK'"!


        *       *       *       *       *



 FOR GRAMMARIANS.--The latest Oxymoron;--the new Pianist, Herr SAUER,
 playing a "_suite_."


        *       *       *       *       *



 THE CHRONICLES OF A RURAL PARISH.


 IV.--ELECTIONEERING.

 WHATEVER, my wife may think about my public meeting, and whatever I may
 feel about it myself, one thing is quite certain--that it has left
 Mudford a very different village from what it found it. When I
 commenced my great efforts in the cause of citizenship there was apathy
 and ignorance amongst the "idiots"--as my friend Miss PHIL. BURTT
 insists on calling the villagers. Things travel quickly nowadays, and
 at the present moment we are all ablaze with the excitement of
 electioneering.

 I ought to say at once that I have taken as yet no steps in my own
 candidature. I feel that, after the part I have played in the great
 Drama of Village Home Rule, the next move ought to come from a grateful
 and appreciative peasantry. In point of fact, I have been expecting
 every day, every hour almost, a deputation to ask me to allow myself to
 be put in nomination--I fancy that's the correct phrase. So far the
 deputations have been as conspicuous by their absence _since_ the
 meeting as they were annoying by their frequency _before_. Another
 curious fact I have noticed in this. We are to have a Parish Council of
 seven. Thus far I have heard of _exactly seven candidates and no more_.
 This means that when I am nominated, as I shall be, of course, by all
 sections of the community (for I feel in my inward heart that it will
 be "all right on the night"), there will be only _one_ candidate too
 many. Who will be the unsuccessful one? I wonder!

 Of the seven candidates, I should first mention Mrs. LETHAM HAVITT and
 Mrs. ARBLE MARCH. Both of these ladies have started a vigorous
 campaign, and--_mirabile dictu!_ (it makes one feel so literary to
 introduce every now and again a tag of Latin)--are running amicably
 together. At a Parliamentary election it's a case of war to the knife,
 but now the lion lies down with the lamb; not that, for one single
 instant, would I insinuate that either is a lion, or, for the matter of
 that, a lamb. I should be ashamed to be so familiar. Mrs. HAVITT'S
 placards are everywhere on the walls. The effect of contrasts is at
 times surprising. For instance--

                       USE BANANA SOAP
                        LETHAM HAVITT
                    FOR THE PARISH COUNCIL.

 Mrs. ARBLE MARCH is no less enterprising, and has purple appeals to you
 to vote for "the March of Progress," and "the March of Ideas." It may
 be very funny, but I have no patience with making a joke of such a
 serious matter. No one, at any rate, can ever accuse me of being
 intentionally funny.

 It is announced from the Hall that the Squire has very kindly consented
 to stand; the Vicar follows his neighbour's example, and will no doubt
 be returned, if for nothing else, as a compliment to his two charming
 daughters. (I think I must ask them to canvass for me when I come out.
 My wife declares _she_ won't, and that she won't let my girls either.)
 That makes four candidates. The other three are BLACK BOB and two of
 his mates, who are claiming support as the "People's Three."

 And now comes, perhaps, the most extraordinary thing of all--their
 programme! I find that it is full of the most (so-called) advanced
 ideas, but that the plank which seems to be the most attractive is
 "Free Trout-fishing!" I confess I could hardly believe my own eyes when
 I read it. In the first place, it seemed so farcical. In the second
 place, the only trout-fishing in the neighbourhood happens to _belong_
 to ME! What's more, I don't see any way out of the difficulty. I met
 BLACK BOB a day or two ago and asked him how he ever got such an absurd
 notion into his head that the Parish Council had anything to do with
 trout-fishing. "It's all right, Mr. WINKINS," said he, "just remember
 what Section 8 says." I said nothing at the time, because I thought as
 a fact that that section referred to Boards of Guardians. When I looked
 at the Act, sure enough I read, as being one of the powers possessed by
 the Parish Council--

    "(_e_) _To utilise any_ well, spring, or _stream within their
    parish_"....

 I read no more. I had read enough. How any Parliament can ever have
 dared to insert such a monstrous section I cannot understand. But there
 it is. "Free trout-fishing!" Well--there ought to be someone on the
 Parish Council to defend the rights of property. I shall be the man.

 Next Tuesday the Parish Meeting in the Voluntary Schoolroom at 7.30. It
 cannot fail to be an eventful night.


        *       *       *       *       *



 Room-attics.

    ["Madame PATTI caught cold in a damp artist's room."
    --_Weekly Paper._]

    O MOIST, unpleasant artist, you were surely overbold
      When your rheum--(corrected spelling)--gave our nightingale a cold.
    When thermometers are falling you'll discover to your cost
      That a singer who has started damp is bound to be a "frost."


        *       *       *       *       *



 NOT A GOOD NAME.--It came out in the HARDING-COX divorce suit that
 "MCNAB" was the Scotch equivalent in hotel visitors' books for "SMITH"
 or "JONES." It may be equivalent, but it isn't good for "MCNAB"; as
 where SMITH and JONES might get off, the Scotchman would be "McNabb'd."


        *       *       *       *       *



 FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

 (CONTINUED.)

 [Illustration]

 Let me collect my scattered senses! Where am I? In Pitti Palace. On
 narrow staircase. Probably on forbidden ground. I hear footfall--
 descending. Perhaps it may be one of the officials, and I shall be
 caught in the act of attempting to enter the royal attics! What would
 be the punishment? Death, or penal servitude? The gallows or the
 galleys? Have happily several one-lira notes in my pocket. If these are
 not sufficient, five lire, or even ten----But I shall see what sort of
 man he is. Perhaps a few coppers would be enough. At this moment the
 obstruction descends, and I discover that he is a fat German tourist.
 For the first time in my life am pleased to look at a German, though
 the cut of this one's clothes is even worse than usual. Feel inclined
 to fall upon his neck and murmur "_Mahlzeit!_" or "_Prosit!_" or some
 other idiotic exclamation peculiar to his country. Fortunately,
 remember that these are only said in connection with eating or
 drinking. Perhaps, if I were to remind him of drink, after he has spent
 hours in a dry, hot gallery, it would not tend to conciliate him.
 Therefore muster up the half-dozen words of his awful language which
 years of anxious study have enabled me to master in all their
 complexities of gender, number, case, declension, conjugation,
 agreement, government, &c.--not forgetting the exceptions--and, taking
 off my hat, ask him if this is the entrance to the galleries. "_Ja
 wohl_," says he. And moreover if I go up these stairs to the top. "_Ja
 wohl_," says he again. Emboldened by his courteous affability, I remark
 that the staircase is very narrow. "_Ja wohl_," says he, for the third
 time, and passes on. A very interesting conversation with an
 intelligent foreigner in a country where we are both strangers. There
 is nothing like travel to enlarge the mind. Besides, one learns so much
 of foreign languages when one hears the varied idioms and phrases of
 the natives.

 Thus meditating I arrive at the top of the ladder. What a smell of
 paint! They are evidently doing up the palace. Turn along a passage
 about two feet wide--how that German got through it has puzzled me ever
 since--and find myself in a magnificent studio, filled with painters,
 easels, palettes and canvases, and with the smell of paint. That German
 deceived me. I have come to the wrong place after all. Am just about to
 apologise and retreat when I perceived a fine old master on the wall.
 Peeping amongst the painters, easels, palettes, and canvases, perceive
 other old masters, almost entirely hidden by the various erections of
 the students. At this moment an official rings a small bell. Ask him if
 I may be permitted to look at some of the pictures on the walls, if it
 would not be interfering with the painters. "Certainly, _signore_,"
 says he. And ask him where the Pitti Gallery is. "It is here," says he.
 What? I have reached it at last! But how can one see anything when the
 whole place is choked up with these execrable modern copies and the
 apparatus to support them? However, I will see what I can now that I
 have got here. Happily the daylight will last for at least another
 hour. "But," continues the official, as I meditate, "it is now four
 o'clock. The gallery is closed."

                                        A FIRST IMPRESSIONIST.


        *       *       *       *       *



 JOHN BULL À LA RUSSE.

 [Illustration]

 The _Novosti_ and other St. Petersburg papers favour the notion of an
 Anglo-Russian _entente cordiale_. We shall have to adapt our
 conversation to our new friends. As thus:--

 SCENE _The Strand._ _Enter_ R. _and_ L. _two quondam Cockneys._

 Why, there's young WOTATOFF!... I hardly knew you, little pigeon, in
 that fur shuba!

 Zzzdrrravstv--I mean, be in good health, Gospodin DROPOWISKY, how do
 you live on?

 _What_ do I live on? Why, vodka mostly, now that we've all turned
 Muscovites. But where are you going, IVAN IVANOVITCH?

 I'm off to call on the _Punchski_ Redaktor, at 10, Bouverieskaya
 Ulitsa.

 Why, so am I! let's hire a droshki.

 Khoroshó--excuse my sneezing!... Hi, izvostchik, drive us to the
 _Punchskoye_ Bureau. What's the fare? two roubles? oh, nonsense! you
 shall have fifty kopeks, and ten more for tea-money!

 What an improvement those bells are, tinkling in the duga over the
 horse's neck!

 Yes, but Bozhe moi! that was a near shave with that runaway troika,
 down Wellington Street! How lucky it is the politsiya wear swords now
 to stop the traffic with....

 Hullo, the Lyceumski Theatre is closed!

 Yes, don't you know Gospodin IRVING and Gospozha _Terry_ are on tour?

 Oh, so they are.... Will you smoke? Here's a papiroska, with a
 mouthpiece!

 Thanks, I'll finish my sweetmeats!

 Well, here we are.... What, the thief of a vanka wants more money? Why,
 we've only gone a verst!

 Let's send for an ispravnik, and have him knouted!... Have you got your
 passport ready?

 Yes--tchort vozmi! I mean, confound it! The dvornik here says the
 Redaktor's too busy to see us!

 Ekaya dosada--what a bore!... Never mind; come and have some shtchi and
 pirogui at the Gaiety Restaurant! They've a very good zakuska there to
 whet your appetite with!

 All right, little brother!... I say, old man, I can't keep this up much
 longer. Let's chuck it and emigrate!

 Where to?

 Oh, St. Petersburg, where they're all talking English now, as a
 compliment to our "Prints WALESKI" and "Ghertsog YORKSKI."

 Very well. Ta-ta! _do svidanya_ till to-morrow!


        *       *       *       *       *



 AN ENGAGEMENT.

 (_A Page from a Diary._)

 [Illustration]

 _Monday._--Delightful news! My sister NELLIE is engaged to be married!
 It came upon us all as a great surprise. I never had the slightest
 suspicion that NELLIE cared twopence about old GOODBODY ST. LEGER. He
 is such a staid, solemn old party, a regular fossilised bachelor we all
 thought. Not at all the sort of man to give way to emotions or to be in
 love. However, it's a capital match for NELLIE as ST. LEGER'S firm are
 about the largest accountants in the city. My wife thinks it will be a
 good thing in another way, too, as my other six sisters may now have a
 chance of going off. It seems that when once this kind of epidemic gets
 into a family, all the unmarried sisters go popping off like blazes one
 after another. Called with my wife this afternoon to congratulate
 NELLIE. Rather a trial for the poor girl, as all sorts of female
 relatives had called full of enthusiasm and congratulations. GOODBODY
 was there (NELLIE calls him "GOODIE") and seemed rather overwhelmed. He
 went away early and didn't kiss NELLIE. I thought this funny, and
 chaffed NELLIE about it afterwards. She said she'd soon make that all
 right.

 _Tuesday._--GOODBODY is getting on. We had a family dinner at home
 to-night. He came rather late and entered the drawing-room with an air
 of great determination, marched straight up to NELLIE and kissed her
 violently. It was splendidly done and we all felt inclined to cheer. He
 kissed her again when he went away, and lingered so long in saying good
 night to my mother that we all thought he was going to kiss her too.
 But he didn't. My wife said that the suspense of those moments was
 dreadful.

 _Wednesday._--He has kissed my mother--on both cheeks. I must say the
 old lady took it extraordinarily well, though she was not in the very
 least prepared for it. It happened at five o'clock tea, in an interval
 of complete silence, and those two sounding smacks simply reverberated
 through the room. Mother was quite cheerful afterwards, and spoke to
 NELLIE about the trousseau in her usual calm and collected frame of
 mind. Still I can see that the incident has made a deep impression upon
 her. My wife told MAGGIE it would be her turn next.

 _Thursday._--It _has_ been MAGGIE'S turn. GOODBODY called at home on
 his way from the City, and set to work as soon as he got into the
 drawing-room. He first kissed NELLIE, then repeated the performance
 with my poor mother, and, finding that MAGGIE was close beside him, he
 kissed her on the forehead. Where will this end?

 _Friday._--He has regularly broken loose. He dined at home to-day, and,
 without a word of warning, kissed the whole family--my mother, NELLIE,
 MAGGIE, ALICE, MABEL, POLLY, MAUD, and little BETA. He quite forgot he
 had begun with my mother, and, after he had kissed BETA, got confused,
 and began all over again. At this moment my wife and I came in with
 Aunt CATHERINE whom we had brought in our carriage. Both my wife and
 Aunt CATHERINE tried to escape, but it was no good. He kissed them
 both, and was just advancing towards me, when the butler fortunately
 announced dinner. Matters are getting quite desperate, and we none of
 us know what ought to be done. Aunt CATHERINE had a violent fit of
 hysterics in the spare bedroom after dinner.

 _Saturday._--The engagement is broken off. A great relief. It has been
 a lesson for all of us.


        *       *       *       *       *



 DEAR TO DUSTMEN.--"A big, big D"--in the window.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari - Volume 107, December 1, 1894" ***

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