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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 109, November 2nd, 1895
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, Vol. 109, November 2nd, 1895" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.


Volume 109, November 2, 1895.

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_


       *       *       *       *       *

Edinburgh, in answer to calls for a speech, at the termination of his
visit with _Thoroughbred_, Mr. J. L. TOOLE presented himself to the
audience "habited in his sables" as the nigger minstrel. _Mr. Punch's_
Own Popular Comedian was in excellent health and in his best, _i.e._,
his own, "form." He explained that, despite appearances which might
lead to such a conclusion, he was _not_ about to join the Christy
Minstrels. However, it was probable, but not yet definitely settled,
that in the next revival of the Shakspearian tragedy at the London
Lyceum, he might impersonate _Othello_ to the _Iago_ of his friend Sir
HENRY IRVING. We hope so. What crowded houses! Booking-office should
open at once.

       *       *       *       *       *


(_From a Newspaper of the Future._)

Many years ago, in 1895, our esteemed contemporary, the _Daily
Graphic_, suggested the appointment of a Minister of Fine Arts. This
seemingly admirable scheme was soon after carried out. The first
Minister was a cautious man. His one great improvement, which met with
universal approval, was to remove all the statues and fountains from
every part of London, and to place them in a row on Romney Marsh, from
Dungeness to Hythe, where they would undoubtedly scare away any French
army endeavouring to land. The second Minister tried to introduce the
so-called "Queen Anne," or Dutch architecture, and prepared a scheme
for altering the whole of London. As a beginning, the north side
of Oxford Street, from Holborn to the Marble Arch, was completely
transformed. Along the whole distance stretched a fantastic row of
red-brick buildings, the surface of which was diversified at every
possible point by useless little windows, and little arches, and
little projections, and little recesses, and little balustrades.
These had risen to the level of the second floors, when a change
of Government brought in a Minister who believed only in English
architecture of the fifteenth century. Under his directions the new
buildings were therefore continued in stone, in imitation of the
Houses of Parliament, but the work was stopped by his death. His
successor, though of course one of the Gothic party, preferred the
Gothic architecture of Italy, and the upper parts of the houses were
therefore finished in that style. As at that time the reduction of
the Budget was urgently needed, it was decided to use painted stucco
instead of real marble, as in Italy.

When the next Government came into office all the houses on the South
side of Oxford Street were pulled down, and everyone said that at
last we should have an imposing row of buildings. Unfortunately a
difficulty arose. The new Minister of Fine Arts was only interested in
gardening, and hardly knew one style of architecture from another. He
could not therefore decide the great question whether the new houses
should correspond with the opposite ones, and, if so, whether they
should be "Queen Anne," or Italian Gothic, or English Perpendicular in
style. The controversy raged for months. Every person interested said,
or wrote, what he thought, or knew, or did not think, or did not know,
about architecture, and taste, and art in general. The Academy of
Arts, the Society of Antiquaries, and the Institute of Architects,
hitherto sedate bodies, became so excited that free fights occurred
almost daily in the neighbourhood of Burlington House, and on the
waste land in Oxford Street. In every newspaper "The Improvement
of Oxford Street" was discussed vigorously. Suddenly the current of
public opinion was turned in another direction by a lamentable event.
The Minister of Fine Arts, returning from his weekly inspection of the
maiden-hair ferns on Wormwood Scrubs, was killed in a cab accident in
Vigo Street, a miserably narrow turning, which had escaped the notice
of everyone but the cabmen, who always prefer the narrowest streets.

At once there arose a universal cry that safety and space were more
important than style. The new Minister was beginning to widen some of
the narrow thoroughfares, when his party went out of office. The work
has not been continued by the present Minister, who is considering a
scheme for the improvement of London by the erection of fountains
and statues. Meanwhile the Oxford Street site is still vacant, and
no improvements are attempted elsewhere. Half of Vigo Street has been
made the same width as Burlington Gardens; the other half remains, as
before, about fifteen feet across from house to house.

Our esteemed contemporary, the _Daily Graphic_, always alive to the
artistic needs of the age, remarks that it is impossible to regulate
art by Acts of Parliament, or to improve London by party government,
and therefore suggests that the Ministry of Fine Arts should be

       *       *       *       *       *


BOARD AND RESIDENCE.--Here is a gem from the Bandon Quarter Sessions.
Their Medical Officer of Health, Dr. MAGNER, was suing the Guardians
of the Clonakilty Union for failing to erect a fence round the
Dispensary residence:--

    Counsel argued that the true cause of all this was that Dr.
    MAGNER happened to be a gentleman of independent mind, who had
    not, like others in the same position, the _savoir faire_ to
    cuddle guardians.

    _His Honour._ Do you mean to say that any unfortunate medical
    officer has to cuddle boards of guardians? A very unpleasant
    duty certainly.

    _Mr. Powell._ Well, they had to attend the meetings, and,
    perhaps, stand drinks, and things of that kind. (_Laughter._)

  Who would not be such a Medical Officer,
    Practised in keeping his Board well in hand?
  D'you think that he offers them cocoa or coffee, Sir?
    No; but it's whisky he's called on to "stand."

  Paupers fall ill, and his task is to cure 'em;
    In fights with infection he comes up to time;
  'Gainst bad sanitation he's paid to secure 'em;
    His drains may be poor, but his "drinks" must be prime.

  Is any Guardian cantankerous? He "cuddles" him
    (So did a Counsel obscurely declare);
  And should this fail, then his "Irish hot" fuddles him;
    For what is a doctor without "_savoir faire_"?

       *       *       *       *       *

THE WATER-BANDITS AGAIN!--Not content with spoiling the Falls of
Foyers, the Aluminium Company now threatens an attack on the Falls of
Clyde. Oh, what a Fall is there, my countrymen! exclaims the patriotic
Scot. The Co. that dares to lay its hands on Clyde, save in the way
of kindness, is a willun, and should be wound up instanter. Says the
_North British Daily Mail_--

    The times are distinctly utilitarian and prosaic, and yet we
    have not all progressed up, or down, to the level of the
    man who sees nothing in a grand cataract beyond so much
    horse-power running to waste.

Neatly put, and even from a utilitarian standpoint it may be well to
remember that as much money may be brought into Scotland by a thousand
tourists wanting to view the Falls, as by a single company wanting to
ruin them.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A THIN DISGUISE.

_The Russian Bear_ (_in Chinese costume, only more like himself than
ever, slily chuckles as he crosses Manchuria_). 'AHA! THEY WON'T KNOW

(_See Special Communication to "Times," October 25._)]

       *       *       *       *       *


    [MAX O'RELL says that the English wife sits opposite to her
    husband at the fireside in the evening with her curl-papers in
    her hair.]

Air--"_She wore a Wreath of Roses._"

  She wore a wreath of roses,
    The night when first we met;
  Her hair, with careful oiling,
    Looked shiny, black, and wet.
  Her footsteps had the lightness
    Of--say a mastodon;
  And oh! she look exceeding smart,
    Though high of hue--and bone.
  I saw her but a moment,
    Yet methinks I see her now
  With the slimness, style and lightness
    Of--say a Low Dutch Vrow!

  A wreath of orange blossoms
    When next we met she wore,
  The spread of form and features
    Was much greater than before.
  And standing by her side was one
    Who strove, and strove in vain,
  To make believe that such a wife
    Was a domestic gain.
  I saw her but a moment,
    Yet methinks I see her now,
  With her big front teeth projecting,
    A queer blend of horse and cow.

  And once again I see that brow--
    No bridal wreath is there--
  A ring of curl-papers conceals
    What's left of her scant hair.
  She sits on one side of the hearth.
    Her spouse, poor man, sits near,
  And wonders how that scarecrow thing
    Could once to him be dear!

       *       *       *       *       *

  I wondered, and departed,
    Yet methinks I see her now,
  That type of British wife-hood,
    With the corkscrews round her brow!

       *       *       *       *       *


MY DEAR MARJORIE,--Since I wrote to you last, ARTHUR has developed
unmistakable signs of acute jealousy. _Bluebeard_ was mild in
comparison with him; _Othello_ childishly unsuspicious. At first, I
liked it, and was flattered; but it is now beginning to be a little
wearing. Also, I find that it has the effect of making me ridiculously
and unjustifiably vain; catching, as it were, from ARTHUR, the idea
that everyone I meet must necessarily admire me, and would like to
take his place. A quite absurd instance of this has just happened, of
which I am rather ashamed. My cousin FREDDY, who is staying with us in
the country, has a musical friend, called PERCIVAL, for whose talents
and accomplishments FREDDY has the greatest possible admiration.
Having got permission to bring him down, FREDDY instantly dragged him
to the piano and insisted on his playing and singing a song which went
like this:--

  "The people call me DAISY,
  Little DAISY, with the dimple,
  And all the boys are fond of me
  Because I am so simple," &c.

We were all charmed, except ARTHUR, and except PERCIVAL himself.
PERCIVAL composes songs, called "_Dreaming Eyes_," "_Far from Thee_,"
"_Ever_"; besides, he can play WAGNER, and MASCAGNI, and TOSTI, and
all kinds of real classical music, and didn't quite like to be treated
as if he were a mere music-hall singer. He is a gentle, amiable
creature, without any pose, and with (as I know _now_) not the very
smallest intention or desire to steal the heart of one who belonged
to another. It would be difficult to find anyone less likely than
PERCIVAL to break up--let us say, for instance, a happy English home.
ARTHUR thought otherwise; to ARTHUR, PERCIVAL seemed a _Don Juan_,
a gay _Lothario_, a very _Lovelace_, the most dangerous of young
troubadours. And he glared--really, glared is the only word--so much
while I talked to poor young PERCIVAL that I, also, actually began to
think there must be something in it; and, from mischief, I talked
to him the more. After dinner, we danced. To tease ARTHUR, who was
snubbing everyone and looking sulky, I couldn't resist sitting in
the conservatory a little while with FREDDY'S friend. True, my
conversation with this reckless _Rizzio_ might have been, word for
word, carried on between two provincial old ladies: and yet, the
knowledge that ARTHUR wouldn't have believed it, gave a sort of
imaginary romantic wickedness to the whole thing. He asked me if I had
read _Trilby_, and said he had, curiously enough, never seen the _Shop
Girl_. We agreed, that though we didn't much like the winter, still
it was certainly a nice change after the summer. We had reached
this point, when ARTHUR came into the conservatory; I rose, so did
PERCIVAL, and at the same time he handed me a little piece of paper on
which he had, while he talked, been writing something in pencil....
I walked away with ARTHUR, mechanically squeezing the little bit of
paper in my hand.

"What," he said, furiously, "was that letter that young fool gave

Becoming frightened, I denied that he had given me a letter, slipped
it into my mouth, and slowly ate it.... We had a scene. I cried; we
made it up, and he gave me a new brooch afterwards.

The next day I seized an opportunity to tell PERCIVAL that he
_mustn't_ do such things, as it made ARTHUR very angry, and also
to ask what was on the piece of paper. He looked at me. "Why, Miss
GLADYS," he said, "didn't you show it to your future husband?"

"What was it?" I asked, timidly.

"It was my publisher's address. You said you would like to have some
of my songs, and----" Thank heaven, he has gone away now, and as
FREDDY is always cycling, there is peace again.

But advise me what to do about ARTHUR.

  Your affectionate friend,

       *       *       *       *       *


_Johnnie_ (_who finds that his Box, £20, has been appropriated by "the

_Bill Bashford._ "OH, IS IT? WELL, WHY DON'T YOU TIKE IT?"]

       *       *       *       *       *


(_By "Hansom Jack."_)



  London is not _only_ gloomy and ghostish, at least Cabby's London
          is not, by a dollop,
  But chock-full of fun. Wot _is_ fun you may ask. Well, I'd like to
          refer you to "CARROTTY CHOLLOP"!
  Spot arf-a-dozen of street-boys or gutter-snipes doin' a skylark
          or slum double-shuffle,
  And you'll find _one_ of 'em a native born _comique_ who'll make
          you crack sides with a kick or a snuffle.

  Same with a cab-rank! There's mostly one cove with a mug like a
          clown's, needing no chalk or scarlet;
  "CARROTTY CHOLLOP" 's a natural grin-maker; don't seem to _try_,
          the mischeevious young varlet.
  Trying's no good, for you can't _learn_ the comic; it comes, like
          a knowledge of 'osses, spontanyus.
  And if without props, with the flags for a stage, you can make
          people _laugh_--well, that's wot _I_ call janyus.

  ROBERTS and PENLEY theirselves can't do _more_. Tell you "CARROTTY
          CHOLLOP" can "gag," and no error.
  To bumptious 'bus drivers and 'igh-'anded bobbies and fussy old
          toffs 'e's a fair 'oly terror.
  Never says nothink offensive--not CHOLLOP!--'e's far too
          hartistic, 'is voice soft as gruel;
  But still 'e can make puffy Crushers go purple with just one
          tongue-snack as goes 'ome and stings cruel.

  Can't score off CHOLLOP. "'E leaves nothink on," says our champion
          cue-'andler, "JOHNNY THE JIGGER."
  'E can make fun out of anythink, CHOLLOP can, jam-full of jokes,
          if 'e just pulls the trigger,
  Bang goes 'is charge, sweeping like a machine-gun; old "CARROTTY"
          ramming 'is 'ands in 'is pockets,
  And cocking 'is queer ginger-scrub of a chin, while the wheezes
          fly round 'im like crackers and rockets.

  Fussy young coppers fight shy of 'im mostly, for 'e knows the
          ropes, and 'e can't be caught napping.
  No "two-and-six-and-two" (fine and costs) knock _'im_ at Marlboro'
          Street, 'long o' loitering _or_ lapping.
  Sharp as a weasel, and slippy as jelly, 'e's got such a manner of
          landing 'is wheezes
  As makes the most wooden-chumped constable snigger behind 'is own
          cuff; _then_ it's go as 'e pleases!

  _Actor?_ 'E's good as a pantermine, CHOLLOP is. 'E can play simple
          and soft as a babby;
  Make you emagine 'e's some gawping chawbacon 'stead of a hartful
          and up-to-date Cabby.
  Struck a bright once. At the risk of 'is life stopped a runaway
          carriage. Old gent, name o' JENNER,
  Told 'im to call at 'is 'ouse the next day; and, when CHOLLOP
          turned up, old gent _tipped 'im a tenner!_

  _'E_ set some store on 'is life, that old codger did. Many a
          swell, whose sole motter seems "collar,"
  After a sharp risky service like that, would 'a' thought a mere
          Cabby well paid with a dollar.
  Many a charge against Cabbies is cackled, and many a bit o' sharp
          practice recorded,
  But 'onesty don't come as sweet as it should when you know wot
          some mean by the words "well rewarded."

  Wealth 'as rum notions of _wages_--sometimes. I once 'ad a case as
          tots up in this manner:--
  To saving a bosky old toff from two footpads, and drivin' 'im 'ome
          (two miles) two-and-a-tanner!
  Watch they were grabbing was worth fifty quid, and _he_--I
          persoom--was worth _somethink_, to someone,
  Though I wouldn't buy such at tuppence a stun. In the matter o'
          meanness this world _is_ a rum one.

  CHOLLOP was luckier. "JACK," 'e says, rubbing 'is rhububy chin,
          like a old nutmeg-grater;
  "JACK, I was fair discumfuddled _that_ journey. 'Ardly knew wich
          was my bloomin' equator,
  And wich my North Pole. Left my 'at on the 'arthrug, and tried to
          shake 'ands with the mortar-haired flunkey!
  Scott! if you'd seen 'im dror back with a shudder! 'Twould fetch a
          fair grin from a blessed brass monkey.

  "A tenner! The fust my ten fingers 'ad 'andled. As crisp and as
          clean as my Sunday-best dickey.
  Wanted to change it right off; 'fraid o' losing, _or_ lighting my
          pipe with it. Paper's so tricky;
  Popped in a shop for a ounce o' best shag and a sixpenny briar.
          But when the old codger
  Clapped heyes on the flimsy in _my_ bunch o' fives, wy 'e set me
          down, strite, for a fair Hartful Dodger.

  "'Where did you get _this?_' 'e croaked, down 'is throat, like a
          pompous old Beak bullyragging a Cabby;
  'Lawks, 'ere's a lark on!' I sez to myself. 'Hay? _Git_ it?' I
          drawls, making heyes like a babby.
  '_Found_ it, perhaps?' sneers the Josser. 'Ah! p'r'aps so,' sez I,
          'or maybe, dontcherknow, it was _guv_ me.'
  Lor, 'ow 'e bossed at me over 'is barnacles. Tenners, 'e thought,
          looked a long cut above me.

  "'If you carn't give more straightforrard account of 'ow this
          ten-pun note came into _your_ possession,
  Wy, I shall detain it, and send for a constable,' snorts 'e,
          a-thinkin' 'e'd made a himpression.
  'Well,' sez I, 'umble, 'a gentleman guv it me, if you _must_
          know.' Then 'e wagged 'is old pow-wow
  And sez, 'I must 'ave that gent's name and address, and see _into_
          the thing, as I think sounds all bow-wow.'

  "'Well, shall I take you to see 'im,' I asks, mild and mealy and
          timersome-like. Sniffin' orty
  'E pops on a topper, and _jumps in my cab_. Then I _druv_
          'im,--no, _not_ to a 'undred and forty
  In Topsawyer Square, but to Scotland Yard, strite! Then I alters
          my part, playing up hinjured virtue.
  '_Now charge me!_' I sez. 'E went squelch like this hegg. 'Look
          ere, Cabby,' 'e starts, 'I've no wish for to 'urt you----'

  "Larf? 'Ow the bobbies and me did a chortle to see 'im cave in and
          squirm round and skedaddle.
  'Hi! Stop, Sir!' I shouts. 'For a fourteen-stun lump of fat
          helderly fuss, you _are_ prompt on the paddle.
  But--fare, if you please,--from your shop to the Yard!
          Eighteen-pence, Sir, to _you_, though it _should_ be two
  That fare knocked 'im silly, at fust. But 'e parted; and I never
          took a fare's money more willin'."

  CHOLLOP should go on the boards, so I tell 'im. I've 'eard 'im
          change patter with regular pros.
  Hegged on by their lydies to take the shine out of 'im. When
          they've squared up, 'tis but little _'e_ owes.
  Ah! the world's tenners are sprinkled unreglar; but talent does
          not always follow the money,
  And many a _comique_ at ten quid a week, though much fatter than
          CHOLLOP, is not arf as funny.

       *       *       *       *       *

NOTE FROM THE OPERA.--Dash my LUDWIG, but this artist is mighty good
as the _Flying Dutchman_ at Covent Garden. Likewise Madame DUMA, as
_Senta_, enthusiastically applauded and showered with bouquets. And
that DUDLEY BUCK, too! Delightful name for a lady-killing lover is the
Deadly BUCK, who appropriately played the forester _Erik_ in love
with _Senta_. Capital performance and first-rate house. Conductor, Mr.
FELD. Recognised his style of conducting at once. Merely saw his back,
and exclaimed, "That's FELD to the ground!"

       *       *       *       *       *

CONCERNING THAT LITTLE PARTY.--A correspondent objects to the
suggestion made in these columns last week that Dr. GRACE should give
a dance in honour of his recent cheque from the _Daily Telegraph_
without consultation with the representative of domestic Home Rule.
"It is possible," writes the scribe, "that were such an appeal made
to such an umpire, the verdict might be 'no ball,' and cause some
confusion." Were such a thing to happen, the champion cricketer might
be "put out"--a contingency so highly improbable, that it does not
merit a moment's consideration.

       *       *       *       *       *

coals!" (_Aside._) But we must, and not on our own terms. (See _Romeo
and Juliet_, Act I., Sc. 1)

       *       *       *       *       *

Shortly to be published, in illustrated form, by the Punch Press,
"_Historic Peeps's Diary_."

       *       *       *       *       *



_The Chronicles of Count Antonio_, by ANTHONY HOPE. "Delightful,"
quoth the Baron; all colour laid on artistically, yet in bold
slap-dash style. Broad effects as in scene-painting. He is the Sir
JOHN GILBERT of romancers is Count ANTONIO HOPE HAWKINS The _beau
cavalier_ wins his lady against all odds. It is WALTER SCOTT, G. P.
R. JAMES, LEVER, AINSWORTH, DUMAS, Drury Lane drama, ancient Astley's
Amphitheatre, essenced; the whole thing done in one readable volume!
Genuine romance: all "movement": interest never allowed to flag:
drums, alarums, excursions: obstacles everywhere only to be
surmounted: dramatic finish and final tableau magnificent! Curtain:
loud applause: and calls for author. Great success.

Hugely content is the Baron with a book published by SMITH, ELDER &
CO., and writ by one "JACK EASEL," some time a frequent contributor
to _Mr. Punch's_ pages. The title of the work is "_Our Square and
Circle_." All is written "on the square," and that the matter is
"non-contentious" is evident, as otherwise the author would be
"arguing in a circle," which is absurd; or "in a vicious circle,"
which would of course utterly take away the reputation of his quiet
square for eminent respectability. That it is pleasantly written, the
reader will find out for himself; that it was a labour of love, and
therefore Easel-y writ, goes without saying. The Baron joins issue
with him on certain details as to the table, the wines, and dinners
generally; though up to now he should have thought himself at one with
him [or "at 7.45 with him," which is the more likely hour] on all
such important points. The Baron gives the book his "Imprimatur," says
"Pass JACK EASEL," and is the author's and everybody's


       *       *       *       *       *


    [It has recently been suggested in the _Author_ that novelists
    should take the management of their books entirely into their
    own hands.]

Happening to call lately on my friend SNOOKS, the eminent novelist, I
was rather surprised at the change which had come over the appearance
of his drawing-room. The books, which had been scattered over the
table in former days, were now methodically arranged along the shelves
which covered the entire walls, and in the corner, where a china
cabinet had formerly stood, there now figured a sort of counter,
behind which stood SNOOKS himself, arrayed in his shirt-sleeves.

"Ha!" he exclaimed, as I entered, "what can I have the pleasure of
showing you to-day? Romances, poetry, travels----"

"Why, SNOOKS," I said, "don't you remember me? What on earth are you

SNOOKS'S face fell somewhat. "Oh, it's you, is it? I thought it was
a customer. You see that I've taken the _Author's_ advice, and am
managing my own affairs."

"Indeed? And how in the world----"

"Hush!" the novelist interrupted. "Here are some customers." And as he
spoke four or five people entered the drawing-room, and marched up to
the counter.

"A nice novel, Madam," said SNOOKS, just like one of Messrs. MARSHALL
AND SNELGROVE'S young men. "Certainly. Kindly step this way, please.
Here is my _Love's Dilemma_, very sweet, I assure you. Yes, only
four-and-six cash. Thank you.... Can I show you anything, Sir? This is
in the latest style--_The Decree Nisi_--or I could write you something
to order, if you prefer it.... Hymns, Madam? No, I am afraid I've none
in stock, would a devotional sonnet do? Of course, I could make
any number you require at the shortest notice.... Thank you,
seven-and-sixpence change. They shall be delivered to-morrow morning.
Evangelical, I think you said?... To suit a young lady--_not_
advanced? Certainly, Sir; I can offer you my _Milk and Mayblossom_,
published at six shillings; reduced to half-a-crown.... You didn't
like _Murder and Sudden Death_, Sir? Well, I _am_ surprised, it's one
of my favourite productions; but I can sell you a rather milder blend,
if you prefer it."

And so the conversation went on, until all the customers had been
satisfied, and SNOOKS wiped his heated brow and turned to me. "There,
you see how it works; splendid system, isn't it? No trouble with
publishers or booksellers, entirely a ready-money trade, done over the
counter in one's own drawing-room."

"Then all these books are your own work?" I asked.

"Of course; you don't suppose I'm fool enough to sell other people's
goods? Of course I keep a large ready-made stock, and turn out others
to order as required. And, as you're here, do just buy----" At this
point I fled.

       *       *       *       *       *

N. B. IN N. B.

  If you'd make them feel "Big Pots,"
  Then by all means call them "Scots."
  If you'd make their tempers hottish,
  You may coolly call them "Scottish."
  But, if wise, be on the watch
  That you _never_ call them _Scotch!_
  True it is that BOBBY BURNS
  Uses all these terms in turns.
  (Such, at least, appears the boast
  Of the northern _Yorkshire Post_.)
  But if _you_ essay the three
  You'll soon find you're not--R. B.

       *       *       *       *       *


    [An international revolver match by cable is arranged to take
    place shortly between English and American teams.]

"Good morning," said a representative of _Mr. Punch_ to the Chief
Umpire of a well-known Telegraphic Agency; "I have come to ask if
you would kindly favour me with some details of your new Sporting

"Certainly," he replied. "It has a great future before it. We intend
to revolutionise sport in all its branches."

"For instance?"

"Well, as it's in season, take Football. In fact, I've just finished
umpiring in an Association match between England and America, which,
in my unofficial capacity, I'm happy to say we've won--for a change."

"Where was it played?"

"Why, at this desk, of course. You see, _we_ cable over to the
Associated Press full particulars of the imaginary kick-off, and they
look it out in the Code--which doesn't generally take more than ten
minutes--and wire back their return kick (also imaginary), with name,
age, weight, and address of the kicker. This is generally repeated
as a security against the risk of error. The charge for repetition is
one-half the charge for transmission, any fraction of one penny less
than a halfpenny being reckoned as one halfpenny, according to the
admirable wording of the Post Office rules."

"And then?"


"We wrangle for the rest of the time. This is quite in keeping with
the modern spirit of football, the game now having developed into a
kind of Hibernian debating society."

"But how was it you won to-day?"

"Oh, we had the last word before 'Time' was called, which enabled our
Sporting Editors to prove conclusively that the first kick scored a
goal, and was not 'offside.' Our American colleagues, however, have
appealed to the Central International Committee of Football Referees,
so that the wires will be kept warm for the next half-year on the
subject in the most sportsman-like manner."

"Capital! And have you any other telegraphic developments?"

"Oh yes! There's our Ladies Inter-Varsity Stay-at-Home Hockey
Contest--that's played over there in the corner every afternoon by
sixpenny telegram. The Dramatic and Novelist Editors attend to that,
in order to acquaint themselves with the workings of the feminine
mind. The Golf Department is in charge of the Scottish Editors. They
have an anxious time of it, as most of the language used is not fit
for transmission, and bunker them badly.... That's the River Editor,
hard at work in that arm-chair, rowing against Yale by cable. And
there you see our Racing Authority, busily engaged over a Horseless
Derby with the French Staff.... My Second-in-Command is now arranging
the Corbett-Fitzsimmons fight, which will take place at last by
telegraph on opposite sides of the Atlantic.... We do a bit of Comic
Volunteer Man[oe]uvres as well, but I'm sorry to say that our Shouting
Editor, whose idea of humour is somewhat noisy, has just broken the
telephone with one of his ejaculations.... But I must ask you to
excuse me now, as I have a billiard tournament, a yacht race, and a
cricket match with all Australia to manage simultaneously, and the
spectators--I mean newspaper readers--are getting impatient."

       *       *       *       *       *

_M.P._owered to appear for the _M-P_-ire before the L. C. C.
licensers, and having successfully scored all his Imperial Pints, is
to be decorated with an Order [not admitted after eight], and allowed
to practice at any of the Bars of the Empire. The restriction of "No
Fees" is not in accordance with Imperial practice.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: COMPENSATION.


_The Future Bride._ "AND I GAIN _MINE!_"

    [_They dissemble their joy._

       *       *       *       *       *


(_A New Yankee Song to an Old Yankee Tune._)

Air--"_Old Rosin the Bow._"

  I'm the Yankee, to whip all creation,
    And _own_ all creation al-so;
  If rivals should seek explanation,
    I tip them the name of MONROE;
      I'll tip them the name of MONROE,
      The doctrine called after MONROE;
    And 'tisn't surprising that I should keep rising
      Whilst holding that doctrine MONROE!

  Of the universe _I_'ll be director,
    That's quite in accord with MONROE;
  And if there's no room for the others,
    The others, of course, have to _go_,
      When I tip them the name of MONROE,
      The doctrine named after MONROE;
    Though to them abhorrent, with me it is current,
      Then hurrah for old Snap-up MONROE!

  From the President's chair it was stated,
    Like rooster our Eagle will crow;
  And if lesser fowls kick up shindies,
    We'll tip 'em the name of MONROE,
      The magnanimous name of MONROE,
      The doctrine named after MONROE;
    O'er world-wide dominions a-waving its pinions
      Our Eagle will squeal--for MONROE!

  Thus I'll blow myself out, and my fixings
    From ocean to ocean shall go,
  And from pole to pole also; all hemispheres
    Pan out for me,--ask MONROE!
      Ask octopus-handed MONROE!
      The doctrine--improved--of MONROE!
    Some folk think his way hard, but I shall tell BAYARD
      To stick to the text of MONROE!

  Our ambassador must be--in London--
    A smart go-a-head plenipo,
  And, if SALISBURY does cut up didos,
    Must tip him the name of MONROE;
      Explain to him Mr. MONROE,
      And the doctrine called after MONROE.
    Then, if things look squiffy, buck-down in a jiffy,
      And drop--for the present--MONROE!

       *       *       *       *       *


(_With compliments to those it may concern_)

The _entrepreneur_ had conducted, the visitor here, there, and
everywhere. He had shown the stage, the auditorium, and the tea
and cake-room. Every feature of the reformed scheme had been duly

"No singing allowed in the entertainment?" queried the visitor.

"None at all," was the reply; "we consider that music is a mistake.
Of course same songs are good, but as others are bad it is better
to prohibit them altogether, and thus escape the risk of a mistaken

"And no dancing?"

"Of course not. That would be entirely contrary to our principles. If
people require exercise they can walk or run."

"But how about the poetry of motion? How about the grace of movement?"

"We desire to have nothing to do with either," returned the
_entrepreneur_. "You see our object is to have an entirely new
entertainment, and consequently we reject all items, that have figured
in other programmes."

"Well, well," murmured the visitor; "you may be right. But I should
like to see the result. I will wait until the performance is given,
and judge for myself."

"I am sorry I cannot assist you to carry out this scheme," declared
the Manager of the Progressive Music Hall, "because we are not going
to have an entertainment."

"No, of course not. Of course it won't be an entertainment in the
usual sense of the word. It can't naturally be an entertainment--I
should have said a performance."

"But we give neither entertainment nor performance."

"Why not?"

Then came the answer, which was more convincing than
surprising--"Because, my dear Sir, we can't get an audience!"

       *       *       *       *       *

THE NEW HOTEL ON THE EMBANKMENT.-- Our Dear _Daily News_, in a recent
note, says that the "Hôtel Magnifique" (as it ought to be called,
reminding us as the D. _D. N._ justly observes of the _Hôtel
Splendide_ in Paris) has been already styled by its proprietors _The
Cecil_. "The Cecil!"--"There is only one in it," observes bluntly a
certain well-known comedian, quoting the song "_There's only one
in it, that's me!_" And pleased is ARTHUR CECIL with the gratuitous
advertisement. But _The Cecil!_ Good name for club, not for
hotel. _The Sarum_ sounds too ecclesiastical; so we return to _The
Magnificent_, which can be familiar in our mouths as "_The Mag._"
"_Omne ignotum pro magnifico._"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Odd notice!" observed a short-sighted man, who had been cursorily
inspecting a card stuck up in a Restaurant's. "What is?" inquired his
friend. "Why this," was the short-sighted one's reply, pointing to the
notice; "'_No charge for changing plates._' Who ever heard of----"
But here his friend broke in, "Why, you noodle, you've been reading a
photographer's advertisement!"

       *       *       *       *       *




       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A NICE DISTINCTION.



       *       *       *       *       *


(_Not held at Nottingham._)

    SCENE--_The garish but unsavoury "Saloon Bar" of a "South-side
    Pub." A group of "Daughters of Toil" sipping and gossiping._

_Laundress_ (_throwing down newspaper_). Wot's this 'ere National
Union of Women Workers there's so much cackle about?

_Step Girl_ (_sullenly_). Dunno, I'm sure. _We_'re not in it, anyhow.

_Workman's Wife._ Ho no! _We_ ain't women workers, I suppose, _we_

_Laundress._ Then I should like ter know where they find 'em. (_Sips
"white satin" and sniffs._)

_Shop Girl_ (_to Sempstress_). 'Ere Miss MIVVINS, you're no hand of
a scholard, and know all erbout everythink. Wot _is_ this Nottingham
Goose Fair, anyhow?

_Sempstress._ Well, it is not a goose fair, exactly EMMA--not in the
sense of the old song, at any rate. Seems to me it's a meeting of
ladies of title, who don't know what work is, to talk about women of
no title who have to do it. (_Sighs._) But I suppose they mean well,
poor dears.

_Young Machinist_ (_pallid and cramped_). Well, Miss MIVVINS, no doubt
as they do. But oh dear me, what good are they going to do the likes
of us? My knees crackle, my back aches, and my head swims. Thanks,
yes, I don't mind if I do. (_Drinks._) Ah! that warms and straightens
one out a bit! But if, as you say, these ladies don't know what work
is, one of 'em should do _my_ little bit at the warehouse for a week.

_Laundress._ Ah! or mine, at the wash-tub.

_Workman's Wife._ Or mine at the wash-tub _and_ all over the shop as
well, as I 'olds is the 'ardest of all, seeing as how it ain't _never_

_Sempstress_ (_mildly_). Ah, yes; but you have _your_ husband and
children for company, whereas I----Oh, the long, dreary loneliness of

_Tailoress._ Lookee 'ere, Liz, don't you talk about the old man being
_cumpny_, not till you know wot sich "cumpny" is. _You_ never got
a black heye like this; and do you 'appen to know 'ow a kick from a
'obnailed 'ighlow feels in the ribs?

_Sempstress_ (_gently_). Well, no, my poor soul; and perhaps I'm
ungrateful to grumble.

_Flower Mounter._ Yes; but what might these topping Nottingham
Lydy-Workers talk about when they _do_ meet?

_Sempstress._ Well, you see----

_Laundress._ 'Old 'ard a minnit, LIZ. Before you begin, let's drink
up and 'ave another all round. Torkin' 's dry work, as I dessay the
Nottingham spouters found it.

    [_They toss off, and replenish._

_Sempstress_ (_continuing_). Well, I see, one of their papers is on
"The Ethics of Work."

_Step Girl._ Lor! wot's that, Miss MIVVINS?

_Sempstress_ (_hesitating_). Well--you see--I suppose it means the
_morals_ of work, or something o' that.

_Laundress._ _Morals_ of work! Might as well talk o' the morals of
misery while you 're erbout it. The less I 'ave to do, the better I
like it--that's _my_ moral.

_Shop Girl._ Not much morals about work nowadays, SARAH, if _I_'m any
judge. Piling up work and cutting down prices, with the halternative
of the streets if yer strikes--that's about the "morals" of _our_
firm. And if you torked to our Boss about these 'ere Nottingham
notions, _'e_'d "moral" you!

_Semptress._ Another lady, I see, with _such_ a pretty, poetic-like
sort of name, talks about "The Responsibility of Refinement."

_Workman's Wife._ Ah, well, we ain't got none, so that can't consarn
us, can it?

_Shop Girl_ (_tartly_). I say, you speak for yerself, Mother MATTHEWS.
Of course, that means refinement in _dress_, and--well we don't _all_
wear a pancake 'at with a 'aporth o' green feathers dobbed on to it!
(_Sniffs, and adjusts her own "high-up" hat with ambitious "hortridge"

_Workman's Wife_ (_sharply_). Now look you 'ere, Miss STUCKUP, if I
'adn't more "refinement" in my little finger than wot you 'ave in
your 'ole five foot nothink, my old man 'ud swop me off for a ragman's
black doll, 'e would, so there!

_Voice from the Bar._ Now then lydies, a _leetle_ less noise there
_if_ you please!

_Sempstress._ I see here's another talks of "Home Life," and another
of the "Morals of Money Spending."

_Workman's Wife._ Haw! haw! haw! Morals o' money spending, indeed! If
these 'ere torky lydies 'ad got as little money to spend as _we_ 'ave,
and as many mouths to fill with it, 'tisn't the _morals_ on it as 'ud
trouble 'em. When the wealthy 'uns begin to patter of morals to us
poor trash, they mostly mean _meanness_, I reckon.

_Young Machinist._ Right you are, Mrs. MATTHEWS!

_Sempstress_ (_sadly_). And as to "Home Life,"--ah! how many of them
know that to some of us it only means a painful "Home _Death_?"

_Laundress._ Oh, come, I sy, Miss MIVVENS, you'll give us all
the 'orrors if you tork like that! While there's life--_and_
liquor--there's 'ope, _I_ sez. So let's 'ave another kind love all
round, and then we must see about----

_Sempstress._ "Home Life" and the "Ethics of Work" again, as the
"Women Workers" say at Nottingham.

_Workman's Wife._ But not in the New Cut--no fear!

_Voice from the Bar._ Now then, time, gentlemen, please!


       *       *       *       *       *


  The Cycle and the Camera
    Were resting side by side,
  When suddenly the Cycle ask'd,
    "Why is it you don't ride?"

  "Why _not?_" exclaim'd the Camera,
    Taking a secret "shot."
  "To do so is considered
    As easy just as 'pot.'"

  "But now I come to think again,"
    The Cycle cried, "I guess,
  Although the notion isn't bad,
    I like it less and less.

  "You see, of reputation I
    Have still a _little_ left.
  And if I went about with you,
    Of _all_ I'd be bereft.

  "Of 'spoony' folk you are the dread;
    You '_take them_' reckless-lee;
  You 'spot' the spouse delinquent when
    He's out upon the spree.

  "In fact you do a _heap_ of things
    You ought to leave undone."
  The Cam'ra murmur'd musingly,
    "I have a _heap_ of fun!"

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *


Mr. PINERO is temporarily Ibsenised. "_What will become of them?_"
should have been the sub-title, if not the single title, of his new
play at the "C. C. C.," or COMYNS CARR'S Comedy Theatre. Instead of
"_What will become of them?_" Mr. PINERO calls it _The Benefit of the
Doubt_, which is supposed to be a quotation from the Judge's summing
up in the Divorce Court in the case of _Allingham_ v. _Allingham_.
_Mrs. Allingham_ has sued for a divorce in consequence of her
husband's misconduct with _Mrs. Fraser_; the misconduct was not
proved, but the Judge was so severe on the conduct of _Mrs. Fraser_
that there is for her, as far as her husband, friends, family, and
Society generally are concerned, no benefit whatever to be obtained
from the existence of the doubt in question. Such is the cheerful
subject Mr. PINERO, in Ibsenitish vein, has chosen, and he has written
a series of dramatic scenes artistically developing his characters
by the most natural dialogue possible, but not, as it seems to me, by
means either most natural, or most probable. The great situation of
the piece is brought about by a gentleman (in the best sense of
the word, as far as we can judge up to this point) permitting his
infernally jealous wife--there is no other epithet for her except
"infernally"--to conceal herself on purpose to overhear a conversation
between himself and her supposed rival! Analogous situations in broad
farce and farcical comedy are frequent and permissible: but surely
not in a drama of real life. But then, I remind me, that this drama is
Ibsenitish; which does make a difference.

[Illustration: _Mr. P-n-ro_ (_making up after the portrait of Ibsen_).
"Ah! I think I'm getting uncommonly like him."]

The play is far too long, but it is admirably written and admirably
acted. The dramatist intends most of his leading characters to be
repulsively sordid, vulgar, and selfish, and those who are not so
are amiable, but weak. The first heroine, perfectly played by Miss
WINIFRID EMERY, is a fast member of a fast family as badly brought
up as _La famille Benoîton_, the vain, frivolous mother being
well portrayed by Miss LINDLEY; and the second heroine, admirably
represented by Miss LILY HANBURY, is simply an odious, jealous shrew,
and the prospect of happiness in a "place unmentionable to ears
polite" would be more probable than any happiness for a husband with
a wife like this. With neither heroine is sympathy possible. Another
splendid comedy performance is that of Miss ROSE LECLERCQ, as the
Bishop's wife, a character whose original is to be found in ANTHONY
TROLLOPE'S _Barchester Towers_, from which I will quote a specimen
passage, and ask those who have seen _The Benefit of the Doubt_
whether it does not sum up in brief Mr. PINERO'S characters of _Mrs.
Cloys_ and her husband the Bishop:--

    "What did you say about it, Bishop?" asks _Mrs. Proudie_ of
    her husband.

    "Why," replies "her little man," "I said that I thought that
    if, that is, should I--should the dean die--that is, I said I
    thought----" As he went on stammering and floundering, he saw
    that his wife's eye was fixed sternly on him.

And these, with the stage directions, are the _Right Rev. Dr. Cloys_
and _Mrs. Cloys_ of "St. Olpherts," and not of "Barchester"--that's
all. And this _Mrs. Proudie-Cloys_ serves as a _Dea ex machinâ_ coming
forward to offer temporary relief to the hard, austere husband _Mr.
Fraser_ (also a good performance by Mr. J. G. GRAHAME), from his very
trying wife. The Bishop is, oddly enough, a mere "lay" figure; and is
"left till called for" at the last moment.

Having already said that the acting all round is of first-class
quality, it will be superfluous to single out Mr. LEONARD BOYNE
for special praise. Yet he deserves it. Had the author given this
character an Irish title, the combination would have been perfect. Mr.
CYRIL MAUDE, as the fussy, empty-headed M.P., adds another finished
picture to his eccentric portraitures; but Mr. PINERO might have
refrained from adding to this personage's eccentricities one which
originated with Mr. CHARLES WYNDHAM'S _Headless Man_, whose system
of _memoria technica_, and recalling things by initial letters, Mr.
PINERO seems to have borrowed, in order to complete _Sir Fletcher
Portwood's_ equipment for the stage. It is as well to note this, lest
by unconscious cerebration Mr. PINERO should, in some future piece,
develope _Sir Fletcher_ into another _Mr. Hedley_, and refer to _Sir
Fletcher_ in this piece as his original.

[Illustration: "Bedad then, 'tis Misther Shawn Allingham!"]

The only pleasant scene is where, in the Second Act, two club "pals,"
_Denzil Shafto_ (Mr. J. W. PIGOTT) and _Peter Elphick_ (Mr. STUART
CHAMPION) appear, the latter with a banjo; both coming to cheer up
their unhappy friend _Misther Allingham_. These two lighten up the
gloom of the Second Act for a brief space, and then are heard no more;
yet the scene in which they strut their short ten minutes on the
stage is one of the best imagined, and best stage-managed as regards
"business," in a piece where every detail has been considered and not
a point lost. For acting, for dialogue, for character (granting these
to be what the author of their being has made them), this unpleasant
play ranks with the best of the dramas from, what _Mrs. Malaprop_
might term, "The Pinerian spring." And the end? Nothing; a blank. The
audience look at one another and say, "Well--and then?... What next?"
It is a highly-finished play without a finish. It belongs to the
new order of dramas classified under the heading of the "The Problem
Play." Whether these will pay, or not, is another problem of which the
author and manager may find a satisfactory solution.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Toiler to a Twitterer.

  BARD MORRIS sings:--"For this of old is sure,
  That change of toil is toil's sufficient cure."
  Ah me! You ought to add, oh bard omniscient,
  "Provided always that the pay's sufficient."

       *       *       *       *       *

addressing a deputation from the Dominion, is said to have remarked
that "he felt assured of help from them, as they were _Hall

       *       *       *       *       *

QUITE NATURAL.--A composer who had taken rooms in certain mansions
in Victoria Street has given them up, as he found himself writing
everything in A Flat. Most monotonous.

       *       *       *       *       *

The "Hook of Holland" ought to catch some large fish. What is it
baited with?

       *       *       *       *       *


CHAPTER II.--_The Rescue._

For what length of time KIPPER and the stagbeetle remained in the
unwonted positions described in the preceding chapter it would be
impossible to say without a stop-watch, which makes a good repeater.
However, it is certain that a couple of snails out for a stroll, who
saw the fall from the bottom of the heap, tried to come to their help;
but, owing to gout, they were unable to get more than half-way up. A
neighbouring mole heard the stagbeetle's smothered cries, but, being
blind, scuttled off in the wrong direction; while an old-fashioned
toad, who lived in a mud-bank just opposite, was aroused from an
afternoon nap, and, after peering out of his hole, declared that it
was no business of his. But then he was always hard-hearted, and had
made it a point never to interfere in the affairs of others ever since
he was out-voted in the Zoological County Council on the question
as to whether tadpoles should be recognised as young frogs. He was
opposed to the measure, stating, in a powerful speech, that inasmuch
as a frog had no tail, therefore a tadpole could not be a frog. Being
defeated, he retired into private life, and was, so report said,
building a home for destitute dormice, for he was a person of
considerable wealth. But he was very mean, and a shrew was heard
to observe that the reason he wished to take the dormice under his
protection was because they ate nothing in the winter.

But while we are discussing politics KIPPER and the stagbeetle are
still in danger. Although the stagbeetle kicked with all his might
he found that it only injured his horns, and so, like many other
creatures not of a gambling nature, lay still and trusted to chance.
As to KIPPER, he was as motionless as a schoolboy's watch. But about
a quarter-of-an-hour after the accident a pretty young maiden, named
EGLANTINE, came tripping along the road. She was not one of those
girls who know that they are nice, because no one had ever told her
so, and she was too poor to afford a looking-glass. But this did not
prevent her from being good to all the inhabitants of the forest,
whether they had four legs, or two, or none at all, as was the case
with the snakes and blind worms. Yet the best of us must have enemies,
and she had incurred the anger of NIPPARD, the great and poisonous
hornet, whose only pleasure, like that of some people who have guns,
was to go out and kill something. EGLANTINE had saved two lambs once
from his murderous attacks by driving them into an out-house,
and NIPPARD had never forgotten or forgiven the insult, and vowed
vengeance. This he had carried out in several ways. He had stung
EGLANTINE'S goat to death, killed her pet dog, and so tortured a brood
of chickens belonging to her widowed mother, that they had imagined
themselves to be ducklings and were drowned in a pond.

These troubles caused great grief to EGLANTINE and her parent, and
ruin stared them in the face; and, when ruin stares, there is not
often a back way out of the difficulty. Very sad, therefore, was
the poor girl as she approached the place of KIPPER'S disaster. But
directly she saw what had happened she forgot all her own troubles,
and, with many words of pity, extricated the stagbeetle from the
stones. The insect was so pleased, that he wished to embrace her:
but stagbeetles kiss, like Laplanders, by rubbing noses; so EGLANTINE
declined the offer, and hurried to pick up the luckless KIPPER,
with whom she had a bowing acquaintance. In her case, therefore,
familiarity had never bred contempt for his sulky ways. She was really
sorry to see the poor fellow in such dreadful plight, and took him up,
as tenderly as she would have a butterfly with a broken leg. Then she
laid him on the soft grass, and sent the stagbeetle to get some wild
mint while she loosened his waistcoat, and gently fanned his face with
a dock-leaf. When the mint arrived, she crushed the fragrant leaves
between her fingers, and made him inhale the scent, still keeping up
the fanning.

[Illustration: "Here we are again!"]

In two or three minutes KIPPER gave two or three sobs, shook himself
like a dog who has been in the water, and, sitting up, opened his
eyes, and exclaimed, "Here we are again!" He had come to himself, for
he could have gone to nobody else. Then he looked at EGLANTINE with a
curious sort of smile, which made her blush, and cried, "So you have
saved my life. What reward do you expect?"

EGLANTINE blushed again, and the stagbeetle gave his master a gentle
pinch and whispered that there had been no time to advertise their
misfortune in the _Gossamer Gazette_, which is the official organ
of Fairydom. KIPPER took the hint and in a milder tone said, "Well,
EGLANTINE, you have done me a good turn. Why did you do so?" "O!
Mr. KIPPER," replied the maiden; "was it not my duty?" "It is a bad
habit," replied the goblin, "to try and answer one question with
another, but it is an excellent but rare custom to try and repay one
favour with another. Can I be of any use to you? Think before
you answer." "Why should I," said EGLANTINE; "are you not a
fellow-creature?" "A fellow-creature!" screamed KIPPER. "Don't you
know that I am a goblin, a mischievous goblin, a good-for-nothing
goblin?" "O! no," answered EGLANTINE, simply; "I only know that you
have the right to be made happy, as has every creature on earth."
KIPPER leapt to his feet. His queer little face seemed suddenly freed
from wrinkles, there was something like a dew drop in each corner of
his eyes. "Why, EGLANTINE," he shouted; "you are a perfect ----" It
has never been known whether he would have added "donkey" or "angel,"
because at this minute a fierce trumpeting rent the air, EGLANTINE
shrieked, the stagbeetle quivered, even KIPPER turned pale, for just
above them hovered a great tawny and black creature, with fierce hate
in its glowing eyes: in short, NIPPARD the Terror of the Forest!

(_To be continued._)

       *       *       *       *       *


(_Fragment from a Romance not entirely imaginary._)

    SCENE--_A corridor in the Royal Courts._ Eminent Counsel _in
    conversation with_ Estimable Solicitor _and_ Respected Client.

_Client._ I am rather sorry, Sir, that you could not conduct my case
in person.

_Coun._ So am I. I took a deal of trouble in preparing the argument
I proposed to advance, and it was a great disappointment to me that I
was unable to deliver it in person.

_Solic._ But your junior, Sir, represented you to perfection.

_Coun._ I am rejoiced to hear it. I give every credit to my young
and learned friend, and am pleased to think that when we met in
consultation I was able to choose the right line of policy.

_Solic._ Besides, if you were not with us, your retainer prevented you
from being against us. And that was a distinct advantage.

_Coun._ You are most flattering, and too kind.

_Solic._ Not at all; and I am sure my client agrees with me?

_Client._ Well, of course I would rather have had the assistance of
silk, although your junior no doubt did his best.

_Coun._ I am sure he did. And now, gentlemen, is there anything
further I can do for you?

_Solic._ Thank you very much--I think not. You got up your case,
consulted with your junior, and if you were prevented from putting in
an appearance in the Court itself, were there in spirit. Besides, I
repeat it was a good thing for us that you did not join the Bar of the
other side. Thank you very much indeed, Sir. Good day.

_Coun._ Good day. (_He prepares to walk off, when, noticing a movement
of the solicitor, he stops._) You are sure I can do nothing more for

_Solic._ Oh, it's scarcely worth mentioning. But perhaps you would not
mind returning your fee.

_Coun._ With the greatest pleasure! (_Hands over a bag of gold and

_Client._ Well, really, that seems to me very generous! Isn't it
rather unusual?

_Solic._ Unusual! Oh dear no! Why, it's the practice of the whole


       *       *       *       *       *

CHILLY KIND OF HOLIDAY.--The _Standard_ of Friday last, in a leading
article on legal reforms, expressed its opinion that, "the Judges
cannot be expected to take their vacation 'in shifts.'" Mr. Justice
PUNCH quite concurs, and quotes from the same article to the effect
that such a proceeding would be "_neither a practicable nor a proper

       *       *       *       *       *

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 109, November 2nd, 1895" ***

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