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diff --git a/old/12378-h/12378-h.htm b/old/12378-h/12378-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c86438 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/12378-h/12378-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2056 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta name="generator" content= +"HTML Tidy for Windows (vers 1st November 2003), see www.w3.org" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content= +"text/html; charset=iso-8859-1" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Punch, August 30, +1890.</title> + +<style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[*/ + + <!-- +body { +margin-left: 10%; +margin-right: 10%; +} +p { +text-align : justify; +} +blockquote { +text-align : justify; +} +h1 , h2 , h3 , h4 , h5 , h6 { +text-align : center; +} +pre { +font-size : 0.7em; +} +hr { +text-align : center; +width : 50%; +} +html > body hr { +margin-right : 25%; +margin-left : 25%; +width : 50%; +} +hr.full { +width : 100%; +} +html > body hr.full { +margin-right : 0%; +margin-left : 0%; +width : 100%; +} +hr.short { +text-align : center; +width : 20%; +} +html > body hr.short { +margin-right : 40%; +margin-left : 40%; +width : 20%; +} +.note { +margin-left : 10%; +margin-right : 10%; +font-size : 0.9em; +} +.center { +text-align : center; +} +.author { +text-align : right; +margin-right : 5%; +} +span.pagenum { +position : absolute; +left : 1%; +right : 91%; +font-size : 8pt; +} +.poem { +margin-left : 10%; +margin-right : 10%; +margin-bottom : 1em; +text-align : left; +} +.poem .stanza { +margin : 1em 0; +} +.poem p { +margin : 0; +padding-left : 3em; +text-indent : -3em; +} +.poem p.i2 { +margin-left : 1em; +} +.poem p.i4 { +margin-left : 2em; +} +.poem p.i6 { +margin-left : 3em; +} +.poem p.i8 { +margin-left : 4em; +} +.poem p.i10 { +margin-left : 5em; +} +.figure , .figcenter , .figright , .figleft { +padding : 1em; +margin : 0; +text-align : center; +font-size : 0.8em; +} +.figure img , .figcenter img , .figright img , .figleft img { +border : none; +} +.figure p , .figcenter p , .figright p , .figleft p { +margin : 0; +text-indent : 1em; +} +.figcenter { +margin : auto; +} +.figright { +float : right; +} +.figleft { +float : left; +} +.bracket { +margin-left : 10%; +text-indent : -2em; +} +--> +/*]]>*/ +</style> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 99, +August 30, 1890., by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 99, August 30, 1890. + +Author: Various + +Release Date: May 18, 2004 [EBook #12378] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH *** + + + + +Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Sandra Brown and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. + + + + + + +</pre> + +<h1>PUNCH,<br /> +OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.</h1> +<h2>Vol. 99.</h2> +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>August 30, 1890.</h2> +<hr class="full" /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page97" id="page97"></a>[pg +97]</span> +<h3>"WHY NOT LIVE OUT OF LONDON?"</h3> +<div class="figleft" style="width:20%;"><a href= +"images/097.png"><img width="100%" src="images/097.png" alt= +"owl and person" /></a></div> +<blockquote> +<p>SIR,—Capital subject recently started <i>Daily +Telegraph</i>, with the above title. Just what I've been saying to +my wife for years past. "Why don't <i>you and the family</i> live +out of London," I have asked. And she has invariably replied, "Oh, +yes, and what would <i>you</i> be doing in London?" I impress upon +her that being the "bread-winner" (beautiful word, this!) my duty +is to be on the spot where the bread is won. I prove to her, in +figures, that it is much cheaper for her and the family to live out +of town, and for me to come down and see them, occasionally. Isn't +it cheaper for one to go to a theatre than four? Well, this applies +everywhere all round. With my Club and a good room I could get on +very well and very reasonably in London, and in the country my wife +and family <i>would positively save enormously</i> by my absence, +<i>as only the necessaries of life would be required</i>. Dressing +would be next to nothing, so to speak, and they'd be out of reach +of the temptations which London offers to those who love theatre +entertainments, lunches at pastrycooks', shows, and shopping. Yes, +emphatically, I repeat, "Why not live out of London?" <i>But she +won't.</i></p> +<p class="author">Yours, ONE IN +A THOUSAND.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>SIR,—"Why not live out of London?" Of course. I <i>do</i> +live "out of London," and make a precious good living too out of +London. My friends the Butcher, the Baker, the Greengrocer (not a +very green grocer either), the Tailor, the Shoemaker, &c., +&c., all say the same as</p> +<p class="center">Yours cheerily,</p> +<p class="author">CHARLES CHEDDAR <i>(Cheesemonger).</i></p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>SIR,—I only wish everybody I don't want to see <i>in</i> +London would live <i>out of it</i>. What a thrice blessed time +August would be then! Though indeed I infinitely appreciate small +mercies <i>now</i>. At all events, most people are away, my Club is +not closed, and I can enjoy myself pretty +thoroughly. +Yours,</p> +<p class="center"><i>Elbow Room +Club.</i> BEAU +WINDER.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>SIR,—"Why not live out of London?" <i>Because one +can't.</i> Out of London there is only "existence." Is life worth +living anywhere except in London—and Paris; if you happen to +be there? No, no; those who like living "out of London," had better +not live at all.</p> +<p class="center"> +Yours, HIPPY +CURE.</p> +</blockquote> +<hr /> +<h3>MR. PUNCH'S DICTIONARY OF PHRASES.</h3> +<p class="center">PRIVATE THEATRICALS.</p> +<p>"<i>Tisn't a part that I</i> feel, <i>and I fear I shall make a +failure;" i.e.,</i> "Easy as be blowed, but <i>I</i>'m thrown away +upon it."</p> +<p class="center">TRADE EMBELLISHMENTS.</p> +<p>"<i>The Ching-Twangs Central China Tea Company's selected growth +of Early Green Leaf Spring Pickings;" i.e.,</i> "A damaged cargo +and last year's rotten sweepings, mingled with chipped broom, dried +cabbage, and other equally suitable and inviting ingredients."</p> +<p class="center">AT LUNCHEON.</p> +<p>"<i>No more, indeed, really;" i.e.,</i> "Had nothing to +eat—but more of <i>that</i> stuff? No, thank you."</p> +<p class="center">ELECTIONEERING.</p> +<p>"<i>The Leaders to whom the Nation owes its recent period of +prosperity": i.e.,</i> "Gentlemen who have unavoidably remained in +Office during the revival of Trade."</p> +<p>"<i>Having every personal respect for my opponent;" i.e.,</i> "I +now proceed to blacken his political character."</p> +<p class="center">IN THE SMOKING-ROOM.</p> +<p>"<i>You know I always hate long arguments;" i.e.,</i> "Don't +deprive me of my pet diversion."</p> +<p>"<i>No; I don't exactly see what you mean;" i.e.,</i> +"<i>You</i> don't; but the admission on my part looks candid."</p> +<p>"<i>My dear fellow, ask</i> anyone <i>who really knows +anything;" i.e.</i> "You appear to live among a half-educated set +of local faddists."</p> +<hr /> +<h2>'ARRY ON 'ARRISON AND THE GLORIOUS TWELFTH.</h2> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>DEAR CHARLIE,—No Parry for me, mate, not this season +leastways—wus luck!</p> +<p>At the shop I'm employed in at present, the hands has all +bloomin' well struck.</p> +<p>It's hupset all our 'olidays, CHARLIE, and as to my chance of a +rise</p> +<p>Wot do <i>you</i> think, old pal? I'm fair flummoxed, and +singing, <i>Oh, what a surprise!</i></p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>These Strikes is becoming rare noosances, dashed if they ain't, +dear old boy.</p> +<p>They're all over the shop, like Miss ZÆO, wot street-kids +seems so to enjoy.</p> +<p>Mugs' game! They'll soon find as the Marsters ain't goin' to be +worried and welched,</p> +<p>And when they rob coves of their 'olidays, 'ang it, they ought +to be squelched.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>'Owsomever, I'm mucked, that's a moral. This doosid dead-set +against Wealth</p> +<p>Is a sign o' the times as looks orkud, and bad for the national +'ealth.</p> +<p>There ain't nothink the nobs is fair nuts on but wot these 'ere +bellerers ban.</p> +<p>Wy, they're down upon Sport, now, a pelter. Perposterous, ain't +it, old man?</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Bin a reading FRED 'ARRISON'S kibosh along o' "The Feast of St. +Grouse,"</p> +<p>On the "Glorious Twelfth," as he calls it; wen swells is fair +shut of the 'Ouse,</p> +<p>Its Obstruction, and similar 'orrors, in course they hikes off +to the Moors.</p> +<p>Small blame to 'em, CHARLIE, small blame to 'em, spite of the +prigs and the boors!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Yet this 'ARRISON he sets <i>his</i> back up. Dry smug as can't +'andle a gun,</p> +<p>I'll bet Marlboro' 'Ouse to a broomstick, and ain't got no +notion of Fun.</p> +<p>"Loves the Moors much too well for to carry one;" that's wot +<i>he</i> says, sour old sap</p> +<p>Bet my boots as he can't 'it a 'aystack at twenty yards +rise—eh, old chap?</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p><i>Him</i> sweet on the heather, my pippin, or partial to +feather and fur,</p> +<p>So long as yer never <i>kills</i> nothink? Sech tommy-rot gives +me the spur.</p> +<p>Yah! Scenery's all very proper, but where is the genuine pot</p> +<p>Who'd pad the 'oof over the Moors, if it weren't for the things +to be shot?</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"This swagger about killing birds is mere cant," sez this +wobbling old wag.</p> +<p>From Arran he'd tramp to Dunrobin without the least chance of a +bag!</p> +<p>"Peaceful hills," that's his patter, my pippin; no gillies, no +luncheons, no game!</p> +<p>Wy, he ought to be tossed in a blanket; it fills a true Briton +with shame.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>No Moors for yours truly, wus luck! It won't run to it, CHARLIE, +this round;</p> +<p>But give me my gun, and a chance, and I'll be in the swim, I'll +be bound.</p> +<p>I did 'ave a turn some years back, though I only went out with +'em once,</p> +<p>And I shot a bit wild, as was likely, fust off, though yer +<i>may</i>n't be a dunce.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>My rig out was a picter they told me—deer-stalker and +knickers O.K.—</p> +<p>"BRIGGS, Junior," a lobsculler called me; I wasn't quite fly to +his lay;</p> +<p>But BRIGGS or no BRIGGS I shaped spiffin, in +mustard-and-mud-colour checks.</p> +<p>Ah! them Moors is the spots for cold Irish, and gives yer the +primest of pecks.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Talk of sandwiges, CHARLIE, oh scissors, I'd soon ha' cleaned +out Charing Cross,</p> +<p>With St. Pancrust and Ludgit chucked in; fairly hopened the eye +of the boss;</p> +<p>Him as rented the shootings, yer know, big dry-salter in Thames +Street, bit warm</p> +<p>In his langwige occasional, CHARLIE, but 'arty and reglar good +form.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Swells will pal in most anywhere now on the chance of a gratis +Big Shoot,</p> +<p>And there <i>wos</i> some Swells with hus, I tell yer, I felt on +the good gay galoot,</p> +<p>But I fancy I got jest a morsel screwdnoodleous late in the +day,</p> +<p>For I peppered a bloke in the breeks; he swore bad, but 'twas +only his play.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Bagged a brace and a arf, I did, CHARLIE; not bad for a novice +like me.</p> +<p>Jest a bit blown about the fust two; wanted gathering up like, +yer see.</p> +<p>A bird do look best with his 'ed on, dear boy, as a matter of +taste;</p> +<p>And the gillies got jest a mite scoffy along of my natural +'aste.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Never arsked me no more, for some reason. But wot I would say is +this here,</p> +<p>'ARRY's bin in this boat in his time, as in every prime lark +pooty near,</p> +<p>And when 'ARRISON talks blooming bunkum, with hadjectives spicy +and strong,</p> +<p>About Sport being stupid, and noisy, and vulgar; wy, 'ARRISON'S +wrong!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p><i>He</i> would rather shoot broken-down cab-horses,—so +the mug tells us—than birds.</p> +<p>Well, they're more in his line very likely; that means, in his +own chosen words,</p> +<p>He's more fit for a hammytoor knacker than for that great boast +of our land,</p> +<p>A true British Sportsman! Great Scott! It's a taste as I +<i>carnt</i> understand.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Fact is this here FRED is a Demmycrat, Positivist, and all +that.</p> +<p>There's the nick o' the matter, the reason of all this +un-English wild chat.</p> +<p>He is down on the Aristos, CHARLIE, this 'ARRISON is. It's the +Court</p> +<p>And the pick o' the Peerage Sport nobbles, and that's wy he +sputters at Sport.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>All a part of the game, dear old pal, the dead-set at the noble +and rich.</p> +<p>"Smart people" are "Sports," mostly always, and 'ARRISON slates +them as sich.</p> +<p>'Ates killing of "beautiful creatures," and spiling "the Tummel +in spate"</p> +<p>With "drives," champagne luncheons, and gillies? <i>That</i>'s +not wot sich slab-dabbers 'ate.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>It's "Privileged Classes," my pippin, they loathes. Yer can't +own a big Moor,</p> +<p>Or even rent one like my dry-salter friend, if yer 'umble and +poor.</p> +<p>Don't 'ARRISON never <i>eat</i> grouse? Ah, you bet, much as +ever he'll carry.</p> +<p>There's "poz" for a Posit'vist, mate, there's 'ARRISON kiboshed +by 'ARRY.</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page98" id="page98"></a>[pg +98]</span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"> +<h2>OUR YOTTING YORICK.</h2> +<a href="images/098-1.png"><img width="100%" src="images/098-1.png" +alt="OUR YOTTING YORICK." /></a></div> +<div class="figleft" style="width:50%;"><a href= +"images/098-2.png"><img width="100%" src="images/098-2.png" alt= +"YOTTING JOTTINGS." /></a> +<h3>YOTTING JOTTINGS.</h3> +</div> +<p>Oh dear! oh dear! What perils I have been through! You'll see me +again shortly; but there have been <i>momentums</i> in my career +when I said to myself, "Shall I ever <i>aller</i> out of this +alive!" I escaped the Petersburg police; they punched out your +Cartoon, and all the lines about the Czar and the Jews; that's why +I was so persecuted, and why I was watched. I wish to Heaven you +wouldn't have Cartoons about Czars and Jews just when I'm at +Peterborough, I mean Petersburg; same name, different place. But +there, that's all over now, and <i>jamais</i> will I go and put +myself within the clutches of the Russian Bear again. The midnight +sun must do without <i>me</i> in future. I send you a sketch I made +of a gargle—I think that's the name—on a church-door in +Lapland. Isn't it really droll? You're always bothering me for +something droll, and <i>now you've got it</i>. Then, <i>Mr. +Punch</i>, riding a reindeer at half-a-crown an hour. Then here are +the little Lapps offering our sailors a lap of liquor; and I said +to myself, "One touch of Nature," which struck me as just the very +motto for the picture. I roared with laughter at it. "This'll do +for 'em at home," I said, and so here it is. And look at the "Lapps +of Luxury"! You know that "Lap of Luxury" is a proverbial phrase; +and, as you told me to make some comic sketches of the manners and +customs of the country, why, I've done so; and, if they ain't +funny, I don't know what humour is. <i>Voilà!</i></p> +<p>But you really must not expect me to grimace and buffoon. You +must take me <i>seriatim</i> or not at all. I can't stand on my +head to sketch. I can't do it. I nearly <i>did</i> do it, though, +for when I had my sketching-book in my hand on board, the +spanker-boom, or some such thing, came over suddenly and hit me +such a whack on the head, that for two minutes I lay insensible, +and thought I should never become sensible again. Rightly is it +called "spanker-boom,"—that is if it <i>is</i> called so, or +some name very like it,—for I never got such a whack on the +head in all my life before. I hear the Booming still in my +ears.</p> +<p>You can't expect a fellow to be funny, however funny he may +<i>feel</i> (and I <i>did</i> feel uncommonly funny, you may take +your oath!), under such circumstances. However, as the song says, +"Home once more," and many a yarn shall I have to tell when I +gather myself round the fireside, pipe all hands for grog, and sing +you an old Norse song with real humour in it—though I dare +say <i>you'll</i> say you don't see it—and so no more +<i>à présent</i> from yours seasickly (I am quite +well, but I mean I'm sick of the sea),</p> +<p class="author">FLOTSAM, Y.A.</p> +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page99" id="page99"></a>[pg +99]</span> +<h2>JOURNAL OF A ROLLING STONE.</h2> +<h4>FIFTH ENTRY.</h4> +<p>Curious thing that to-day—after disappointment of failure +for the Bar—letter comes from President of my old College, +asking me "if I would accept a nice Tutorship for a time?" If so, +"I had better come down and talk to him about it."</p> +<p>Decided a little time ago not to try "Scholastic +Profession"—thought it would try <i>me</i> too much. Feel +tempted now. <i>Query</i>—am I losing my old pluck? In +consequence of my new "pluck,"—in the Bar Exam?</p> +<p>"Um!" remarks the President (I <i>have</i> run down and got a +vacant bed-room in College). "Glad to see you. Oh, yes, about that +tutorship. Um, um! The family live in Somerset." He mentions the +county apologetically, as if he expected me to reply—"Oh, +Somerset! Couldn't dream of going <i>there</i>. Not very +particular, but must have a place within ten miles of Charing +Cross." As I don't object to Somerset, at least audibly, he goes on +more cheerfully—</p> +<p>"Boy doesn't want to be taught much, so perhaps, it would suit +you."—(<i>Query</i>—is this insulting?)—"He wants +a companion more—somebody to keep him steady, have a good +influence and all that, and give him a little classics and so on +for about an hour a day."</p> +<p>It did not sound as bad as I expected.</p> +<p>"Rich people—um—merchants at Bristol, I think. Not +very cultivated, though." Here President pauses again, and looks as +if he would not be at all astonished if I rose from my chair, put +on my hat, and said, "Not very cultivated! That won't suit +<i>me</i>! You see how tremendously cultivated <i>I</i> am." But I +don't, and he proceeds calmly to another head of his discourse.</p> +<p>"They haven't mentioned terms, but I'm sure they will be +satisfactory—give you what you ask, in fact." (Rather a nice +trait in their character, this.)—"Now, will +you—um—take it? They want somebody at once."</p> +<p>"Yes," I reply; "I'll go and see how I fancy it. Have they got a +billiard-table, do you happen to know?"</p> +<p>The President says, "he doesn't know anything about +<i>that</i>," and looks a little surprised, as if I had proposed a +game of skittles.</p> +<p>On way down (next day) I feel rather like a Governess going to +her first situation. Get to house late. Too dark to see what it's +like. Have to drive up in a village fly. +<i>Query</i>—Oughtn't they to have sent their carriage for +me?</p> +<p>My reception is peculiar. A stout, masculine-looking female with +a strident voice, is presumably Mrs. BRISTOL MERCHANT.</p> +<p>Sends me up to my bed-room as if I were my own luggage. +Evidently very "uncultivated."</p> +<p>In my bed-room. Above are the sounds of a small pandemonium, +apparently. Stamping, falling, shouting, bumping, crying. What a +lot of them there must be!</p> +<p>There are! At supper—they appear to have early dinners, +which I detest—three boys and one girl present, as a sample. +Eldest a youth about ten, who puts out his tongue at me, when he +thinks I'm not looking, and kicks his brothers beneath the table to +make them cry, which they do. I begin to wonder when my real pupil +will appear.</p> +<p>Governess talks to me as if I were a brother professional. +<i>Query—infra dig</i>. again?</p> +<p>Children, being forbidden to talk in anything but French at +meals, say nothing at all; at the end I am astounded at +Materfamilias catching hold of the boy of ten, and bringing him +round to me, with the remark,—</p> +<p>"Perhaps you'd like to talk to ERNIE about lessons."</p> +<p>Heavens! This nursery fledgling to be my pupil! And I am to be +his "companion"! Fledgling, while standing in front of me for +inspection, has the audacity to stretch out his leg, and trip up a +little sister who is passing. Howls ensue.</p> +<p>A nicely-mannered youth!</p> +<p>"You will have to behave yourself with <i>me</i>, young man!" I +warn him, in a tone which ought to abash him, but doesn't in the +least.</p> +<p>"Ah, but perhaps you won't stay here long," is his rather able +rejoinder. "Our Governesses never—"</p> +<p>"ERNIE!" shrieks his mother, threateningly. ERNIE stops; and I +have time to regret my folly in not inquiring of the President the +precise age of my promising disciple, very likely President didn't +know himself.</p> +<p>The other boys who were at supper are now presented to me. One +is about eight, the other not more than six.</p> +<p>"These are HERBIE and JACK," says their mother, who ought to +know. Thank Heaven, <i>they</i> are not my pupils!</p> +<p>Mrs. BRISTOL MERCHANT horrifies me by saying—</p> +<p>"I thought it would be so nice, when you were teaching ERNIE, +<i>if</i> HERBIE <i>and</i> JACK <i>could be taught too!</i> And +after lessons you will be able to take them such nice long walks in +the neighbourhood! It's really very pretty country, Mr.—I +forget your name."</p> +<p>Oh, certainly, the President was quite right. She <i>is</i> very +uncultivated. That ever I was born to cultivate her—or her +precious offspring! But was I? Time must show.</p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width:40%;"><a href= +"images/099.png"><img width="100%" src="images/099.png" alt= +"SARTORIAL EUPHUISMS." /></a> +<h3>SARTORIAL EUPHUISMS.</h3> +<p>"MEASUREMENTS ABOUT THE SAME AS THEY USED TO BE, SNIPPE?"</p> +<p>"YES, SIR. CHEST A TRIFLE <i>LOWER DOWN</i>, SIR, THAT'S +ALL!"</p> +</div> +<hr /> +<h2>AN ARGUMENTUM AD POCKETUM.</h2> +<blockquote> +<p>[The Rev. B. MEREDYTH-KITSON called the attention of the London +School Board to the action of Mr. MONTAGU WILLIAMS, who, being +appealed to by "a respectable-looking woman" for the remission of a +fine of five shillings imposed upon her husband for neglecting to +send their children to school, gave her five shillings out of the +poor-box to pay it, on finding that she had nine children, the +eldest fifteen years, the youngest five months, a husband out of +work, and "no boots for her children to go to school in." The Rev. +STEWART HEADLAM said that in East London they suffered a good deal +through the decisions of Mr. MONTAGU WILLIAMS, who constantly paid +the fines from the poor-box, or out of his own pocket!]</p> +</blockquote> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Oh, MONTAGU, this conduct is nefarious!</p> +<p class="i2"><i>You</i> are, indeed, a pretty Magistrate!</p> +<p>Better the judgments, generous, if precarious,</p> +<p class="i2">Of the old Cadi at an Eastern gate.</p> +<p>No wonder that you madden MEREDTTH-KITSON,</p> +<p class="i2">And stir the bitter bile of STEWART HEADLAM.</p> +<p>When Justice, School-Board ruling simply "sits on,"</p> +<p class="i2">School-Boards become a mere annexe +of—Bedlam!</p> +<p>Nine children! Husband out of work! No boots!</p> +<p class="i2">And do you really think that <i>these</i> are +reasons</p> +<p>For fine-remission? This strikes at the roots</p> +<p class="i2">Of Law, which ought to rule us at all seasons.</p> +<p>Oh, how shall KITSON educate the "kids,"</p> +<p class="i2">Or how shall HEADLAM discipline the mothers,</p> +<p>If you, instead of doing what Law bids,</p> +<p class="i2">Pay the poor creatures' fines and raise up +bothers?</p> +<p>Law, Sir, is Law, even to Magistrates,</p> +<p class="i2">Not a mere chopping-block for maudlin charity.</p> +<p>Fining the impecunious doubtless grates</p> +<p class="i2">On feelings such as yours; there's some disparity</p> +<p>'Twixt School-Board Draconism, and regard</p> +<p class="i2">For parents penniless, and children bootless;</p> +<p>But pedagogues—ask HEADLAM—must be hard,</p> +<p class="i2">Or pedagogy's purposes are fruitless.</p> +<p>Poor creatures? Humph! Compassion's mighty fine;</p> +<p class="i2">A gentle feeling, who would wish to shock it?</p> +<p>But husbands out of work with children nine,</p> +<p class="i2">Should pay their fines themselves—not from +<i>your</i> pocket.</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page100" id="page100"></a>[pg +100]</span> +<h3>KEPT IN TOWN.—A Lament.</h3> +<div class="figright" style="width:20%;"><a href= +"images/100.png"><img width="100%" src="images/100.png" alt= +"KEPT IN TOWN." /></a></div> +<div class="poem" style="margin-left:5%"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>The Season's ended; in the Park the vehicles are far and +few,</p> +<p>And down the lately-crowded Row one horseman canters on a +screw</p> +<p>By stacks of unperceptive chairs; the turf is burnt, the leaves +are brown,</p> +<p>stagnant sultriness prevails—the very air's gone out of +town!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Belgravia's drawn her blinds, and let her window-boxes run to +seed;</p> +<p>Street-urchins play in porticoes—no powdered menial there +to heed;</p> +<p>Now fainter grows the lumbering roll of luggage-cumbered +omnibus:</p> +<p>Bayswater's children all are off upon their annual exodus.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>On every hoarding posters flaunt the charms of peak, and loch, +and sea,</p> +<p>To madden those unfortunates who have to stay in town—like +me!</p> +<p>Gone are the inconsiderate friends who tell one airily, "They're +off!"</p> +<p>And ask "what <i>you</i> propose to do—yacht, shoot, or +fish, or walk, or golf?"</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>On many a door which opened wide in welcome but the other +day,</p> +<p>The knocker basks in calm repose—conscious "the family's +away."</p> +<p>I scan the windows—half in hope I may some friendly face +detect—</p> +<p>To meet their blank brown-papered stare, depressing as the cut +direct!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>I pass the house where She is not, to feel an unfamiliar +chill;</p> +<p>That door is disenchanted now, that number powerless to +thrill!</p> +<p>'Twas there, in yonder balcony, that last July she used to +stand;</p> +<p>Upon some balcony, more blest, she's leaning now, in +Switzerland,</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Her eyes upon rose-tinted peaks—but no, of sense I 'm +quite bereft!</p> +<p>The hour is full early yet, and <i>table d hôte</i> she'll +scarce have left.</p> +<p>Some happy neighbour's handing her the salad—But I'll +move, I think;</p> +<p>I see a grim caretaker's eye regard me through the shutter's +chink.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Yes, I'll away,—no longer be the sport of sentiment +forlorn,</p> +<p>But scale the heights of Primrose Hill, pretending it's the +Matterhorn;</p> +<p>Or hie me through the dusk to sit beside the shimmering +Serpentine,</p> +<p>And, with a little make-believe, imagine I am up the Rhine.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Alas! the poor device, I know, my restlessness will ne'er +assuage:</p> +<p>Still Fanny beats, with pinions clipped, the wires of its +Cockney cage!</p> +<p>No inch of turf to prisoned larks can represent the boundless +moor;</p> +<p>And neither Hyde nor Regent's Park suggests a Continental +Tour!</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<h2>VOCES POPULI.</h2> +<h4>IN AN OMNIBUS.</h4> +<p class="bracket"><i>The majority of the inside passengers, as usual, sit in +solemn silence, and gaze past their opposite neighbours into +vacancy. A couple of Matrons converse in wheezy whispers.</i></p> +<p><i>First Matron.</i> Well, I must say a bus is pleasanter riding +than what they used to be not many years back, and then so much +cheaper, too. Why, you can go all the way right from here to Mile +End Road for threepence!</p> +<p><i>Second Matron.</i> What, all that way for +threepence—(<i>with an impulse of vague humanity</i>.) The +<i>poor</i> 'orses!</p> +<p><i>First Matron.</i> Ah, well, my dear, it's Competition, you +know,—it don't do to think too much of it.</p> +<p><i>Conductor (stopping the bus).</i> Orchard Street, Lady.</p> +<p><i>To</i> Second Matron, <i>who had desired to be put down +there.</i></p> +<p><i>Second Matron (to</i> Conductor). Just move on a few doors +further, opposite the boot-shop. (<i>To</i> First Matron.) It will +save us walking.</p> +<p><i>Conductor.</i> Cert'inly, Mum, we'll drive in and wait while +you 're tryin' 'em on, if you like—<i>we</i> ain't in no +'urry!</p> +<p><i>The</i> Matrons <i>get out, and their places are taken by two +young girls, who are in the middle of a conversation of thrilling +interest.</i></p> +<p><i>First Girl.</i> I never liked her myself—ever since the +way she behaved at his Mother's that Sunday.</p> +<p><i>Second Girl.</i> How <i>did</i> she behave?</p> +<p class="bracket"><i>[A faint curiosity is discernible amongst the other +passengers to learn how she—whoever she is—behaved that +Sunday.</i></p> +<p>First Girl. Why, it was you <i>told</i> me! <i>You</i> remember. +That night JOE let out about her and the automatic scent +fountain.</p> +<p><i>Second Girl.</i> Oh, yes, I remember now. <i>(General +disappointment. )</i> I couldn't help laughing myself. Joe didn't +ought to have told—but she needn't have got into such a state +over it, <i>need</i> she?</p> +<p><i>First Girl,</i> That was ELIZA all over. If GEORGE had been +sensible, he'd have broken it off then and there—but no, he +wouldn't hear a word against her, not at that time—it was the +button-hook opened <i>his</i> eyes!</p> +<p class="bracket"><i>[The other passengers strive to dissemble a frantic desire to +know how and why this delicate operation was performed.</i></p> +<p><i>Second Girl (mysteriously).</i> And enough too! But what put GEORGE off most +was her keeping that bag so quiet.</p> +<p class="bracket"><i>[The general imagination is once more stirred to its depths +by this mysterious allusion.</i></p> +<p><i>First Girl.</i> Yes, he did feel that, I know, he used to +come and go on about it to me by the hour together. "I shouldn't +have minded so much," he told me over and over again, with the +tears standing in his eyes,—"if it hadn't been that the +bottles was all silver-mounted!"</p> +<p><i>Second Girl.</i> Silver-mounted? I never heard of <i>that</i> +before—no wonder he felt hurt!</p> +<p><i>First Girl (impressively).</i> Silver tops to everyone of +them—and that girl to turn round as she did, and her with an +Uncle in the oil and colour line, too—it nearly broke +GEORGE'S 'art!</p> +<p><i>Second Girl</i>. He's such a one to take on about +things—but, as I said to him, "GEORGE," I says, "You must +remember it might have been worse. Suppose you'd been married to +that girl, and <i>then</i> found out about ALF and the Jubilee +sixpence—how would <i>that</i> have been?"</p> +<p><i>First Girl (unconsciously acting as the mouth-piece of the +other passengers).</i> And what did he say to <i>that?</i></p> +<p><i>Second Girl.</i> Oh, nothing—there was nothing he +<i>could</i> say, but I could see he was struck. She behaved very +mean to the last—she wouldn't send back the German +concertina.</p> +<p><i>First Girl.</i> You don't say so! Well, I wouldn't have +thought that of her, bad as she is.</p> +<p><i>Second Girl.</i> No, she stuck to it that it wasn't like a +regular present, being got through a grocer, and as she couldn't +send him back the tea, being drunk,—but did you hear how she +treated EMMA over the crinoline 'at she got for her?</p> +<p><i>First Girl (to the immense relief of the rest).</i> No, what +was that?</p> +<p><i>Second Girl.</i> Well, I had it from EMMA her own self. ELIZA +wrote up to her and says, in a postscript like,—Why, this is +Tottenham Court Road, I get out here. Good-bye, dear, I must tell +you the rest another day.</p> +<p class="bracket"><i>[Gets out, leaving the tantalised audience inconsolable, and +longing for courage to question her companion as to the precise +details of</i> ELIZA'S <i>heartless behaviour to</i> GEORGE. <i>The +companion, however, relapses into a stony reserve. Enter a</i> +Chatty Old Gentleman <i>who has no secrets from anybody, and of +course selects as the first recipient of his confidence the one +person who hates to be talked to in an omnibus.</i></p> +<p><i>The Chatty O.G.</i> I've just been having a talk with the +policeman at the corner there—what do you think I said to +him?</p> +<p><i>His Opposite Neighbour.</i> I—I really don't know.</p> +<p><i>The C.O.G.</i> Well, I told him he was a rich man compared +to me. He said, "I only get thirty shillings a week, Sir." "Ah," I +said, "but look at your expenses, compared to mine. What would +<i>you</i> do if you had to spend eight hundred a year on your +children's education? I spend that—every penny of it, +Sir.</p> +<p><i>His Opp. N. (utterly uninterested).</i> Do you +indeed?—dear me!</p> +<p><i>C.O.G.</i> Not that I grudge it—a good education is a +fortune in itself, and as I've always told my boys, they must make +the best of it, for it's all they'll get. They're good enough lads, +but I've had a deal of trouble with them one way and +another—a <i>deal</i> of trouble. <i>(Pauses for some +expression of sympathy—which does not come—and he +continues:)</i> There are my two eldest sons—what must they +do but fall in love with the same lady—the same lady. Sir! +<i>(No one seems to care much for these domestic +revelations—possibly because they are too obviously addressed +to the general ear.)</i> And, to make matters worse, she was a +married woman—<i>(his principal hearer looks another way +uneasily)</i>—the wife of a godson of mine, which made it all +the more awkward, y'know. (His Opposite Neighbour <i>giving no +sign, the</i> C. O. G. <i>tries one Passenger after another.)</i> +Well, I went to him—(here he fixes an old Lady, who +immediately passes up coppers out of her glove to the +Conductor)—went to him, and said—<i>(addressing a +smartly dressed young Lady with a parcel, who giggles)</i>—I +said, "You're a man of the world—so am I. Don't you take any +notice," I told him—<i>(this to a callow young man, who +blushes)</i>—"they're a Couple of young fools," I said, "but +you tell your dear wife from me not to mind those boys of +mine—they'll soon get tired of it if they're only let alone." +And so they would have, long ago, it's my belief, if they'd met +with no encouragement—but what can <i>I</i> do—it's a +heavy trial to a father, you know. Then there's my third +son—he must needs go and marry—<i>(to a Lady at his +side with a reticule, who gasps faintly)</i>—some young woman +who dances at a Music-hall—nice daughter-in-law that for a +man in my position, eh? I've forbidden him the house of course, and +told his mother not to have any communication with him—but I +know, Sir,—<i>(violently, to a Man on his other side, who +coughs in much embarrassment)</i>—I <i>know</i> she meets him +once a week under the eagle in Orme Square, and <i>I</i> can't stop +her! Then I'm worried about my daughters—one of 'em gave me +no peace till <span class="pagenum"><a name="page101" id= +"page101"></a>[pg 101]</span> I let her have some painting +lessons—of course, I naturally thought the drawing-master +would be an elderly man—whereas, as things turned +out,—</p> +<p><i>A Quiet Man in a Corner.</i> I 'ope you told all this to the +Policeman, Sir?</p> +<p><i>The C.O.G. (flaming unexpectedly).</i> No, Sir, I did +<i>not</i>. I am not in the habit—whatever <i>you</i> may +be—of discussing my private affairs with strangers. I +consider your remark highly impertinent, Sir.</p> +<p class="bracket">[<i>Fumes in silence for the rest of the journey.</i></p> +<p><i>The Young Lady with the Parcel (to her friend—for the sake +of vindicating her gentility).</i> Oh, my dear, I do feel so funny, +carrying a great brown-paper parcel, in a bus, too! Anyone would +take me for a shop-girl!</p> +<p><i>A Grim Old Lady opposite.</i> And I only hope, my dear, +you'll never be taken for anyone less respectable.</p> +<p class="bracket">[<i>Collapse of</i> Genteel Y. L.</p> +<p><i>The Conductor</i>. Benk, benk! <i>(he means "Bank")</i> +'Oborn, benk! 'Igher up there, BILL, can't you?</p> +<p><i>A Dingy Man smoking, in a Van.</i> Want to block up the ole +o' the road, eh? That's right!</p> +<p><i>The Conductor (roused to personality).</i> Go 'ome, Dirty +DICK! syme old soign, I see,—"Monkey an' Pipe!" <i>(To +Coachman of smart brougham which is pressing rather closely +behind.)</i> I say, old man, don't you race after my bus like +this—you'll only tire your 'orse.</p> +<p class="bracket"><i>[The Coachman affects not to have heard.</i></p> +<p><i>The Conductor (addressing the brougham horse, whose head is +almost through the door of the omnibus).</i> 'Ere, '<i>ang</i> it +all!—step insoide, if yer want to!</p> +<p class="bracket"><i>[Brougham falls to rear</i>—<i>triumph of</i> Conductor +<i>as Scene closes</i>.</p> +<hr /> +<h2>IN THE KNOW.</h2> +<p class="center"><i>(By Mr. Punch's Own Prophet.)</i></p> +<div class="figleft" style="width:20%;"><a href= +"images/101.png"><img width="100%" src="images/101.png" alt= +"IN THE KNOW." /></a></div> +<p>Readers of this journal will be surprised to learn that I am +penning these lines from Blancheville, which as everybody, except +the chief of the chowder-heads, knows is the most important town of +one of the principal departments of France. Nothing but an +overwhelming sense of what is due to myself, to my readers, and to +my country, would have dragged me from the Metropolis at this +season of the year. But a distinction was offered to me, a +distinction so unique and so dazzling that I felt that it would not +be fair to my fellow countrymen, of all ages, and of every party, +if I failed to take advantage of it, and thus to present to the +envious world the proud spectacle of an Englishman honoured by the +great French nation. I will narrate the matter as briefly as is +consistent with my respect for accuracy, and with my contempt for +the tapioca-brained nincompoops who snarl, and chatter, and cackle +at me in the organ of Mr. J. Last Friday I received this +telegram:—</p> +<p class="author"><i>Blancheville, Friday.</i></p> +<p>The inhabitants of Blancheville, in public meeting assembled, +felicitate you on stupendous success of all your prophecies. +Desiring to honour you in the name of France, the mother of +glorious heroes, and the eldest daughter of Liberty, they have +awarded to you the Montyon prize for virtue, and have selected you +as <i>Rosier en perpétuité de Blancheville</i>, a new +post never before held by a man. Presentation on Sunday. Come at +once.</p> +<p class="author"> +<i>(Signed)</i> CARAMEL, +<i>Maire de Blancheville.</i></p> +<p>I started that evening. In the course of the following day I +reached Blancheville. The people, in their holiday attire, were +gathered in thousands at the railway station. M. CARAMEL, +accompanied by the <i>Préfet</i> and the +<i>Sous-Préfet,</i> all in their tricolor sashes, was the +first to greet me. Saluting me on both cheeks, he called upon the +world to witness that this was indeed a great day for Blancheville. +My escort, under the command of General Count CROUTAUPOT, then +formed up. I mounted the gilded Car of Victory, specially provided +for the celebration, and, amidst the plaudits of the assembled +millions, I was drawn by a specially-selected band of <i>Enfants de +la Patrie</i> (a sort of body-guard, composed entirely of the +French aristocracy) to the palace, which had been prepared for my +reception. At the banquet, in the Town Hall, the healths of the +QUEEN and of M. CARNOT were followed by a lengthy speech, in +English, from my brother CARAMEL (we have sworn fraternity), in +which he declared that the centuries looked down and redazed in +this joice, and that it was a delight for him to carry a toast to +the illustrious visitor who had deigned to come to Blancheville. On +the following day the ceremony took place. I transcribe and +translate from <i>Le Petit Colporteur de Blancheville</i>, the +chief local journal, an account of what took place.</p> +<p>"On this day, so great and glorious for our France, it is not +possible to refrain from tears of joy and satisfaction. We have +made him <i>Rosier en perpétuité de Blancheville</i>, +him the proudest and most sympathetic writer who has dazzled Europe +since the great and illustrious PLUMEAU" (a local author of repute) +"departed from us. The history of this day must be written. Let us +essay to do it as it should be done. In the early morning twelve +selected maidens, robed in muslin and lilies, sang the <i>Tocsin de +la Patrie</i> outside the Palace where our guest reposed. Soon +afterwards he himself appeared in flowing white garments, and +showered blessings upon their heads. He descended. He entered the +four-in-hand-teams which the <i>Maire</i> had, as a compliment to +England, made up with a <i>char-à-banc</i> of the +neighbourhood. Thus he was drawn to the Market Place, where some of +our bravest veterans fired in his honour a thundering salute. The +beautiful and admirable Madame CARAMEL then advanced to him with a +wreath of roses in her hand. She crowned him with it, saying, 'Wear +this for Blancheville. Nobly hast thou earned it.' With difficulty +the illustrious author preserved his calm. A tear sparkled in his +eye. He bent low, and in a voice choked with emotion, thanked the +citizens of our town. Then mounting on a milk-white steed, and +surrounded by the young men of the district, he received from the +<i>Préfet</i> the Prix Montyon for virtue."</p> +<p>The rest is too flattering. I am hastening home. The QUEEN has +been graciously pleased to permit me to wear the Prix Montyon at +Court. Can a man want more?</p> +<p>Yours, in all humility,</p> +<p class="author">LE ROSIER DE BLANCHEVILLE.</p> +<hr /> +<h3>A PUFF AT WHITEHALL.</h3> +<p class="center"><i>(A piece of extravagance faintly suggestive of +a Scene from "The Critic.")</i><br /> +Lord GEORGE PUFF <i>and</i> Sir JOHN BULL <i>discovered attending a +rehearsal of the Naval Estimates.</i></p> +<p><i>Lord George.</i> And now I pray your particular attention, +Sir JOHN, as this is the best thing in my play—it is a +spectacular effect called the Summer Manoeuvres.</p> +<p><i>Sir John.</i> And no doubt costly, Lord GEORGE?</p> +<p><i>Lord George.</i> You are right, Sir JOHN, as you will have an +opportunity of finding out—hereafter. But to the argument. It +is supposed that the British Fleet is at war with, indeed, the +British Fleet.</p> +<p><i>Sir John.</i> A very clever idea.</p> +<p><i>Lord George.</i> I flatter myself it is, and novel too. It is +true that occasionally the ships comprising the British Fleet have +run into one another in the past just as if they had been at war, +but then they were avowedly at peace, and now they are undoubtedly +the reverse. Do you take my meaning?</p> +<p><i>Sir John.</i> Well, not clearly. How do you show that the +British Fleet is at war with the British Fleet?</p> +<p><i>Lord George.</i> Ah, there comes in my art, and I think you +will confess I have a very pretty wit. You see I divide the British +Fleet into two parts—one part represents the enemy and the +other part represents itself like the House of Commons, a most +representative body. That is clear, I hope?</p> +<p><i>Sir John.</i> Certainly—one is the British Fleet, and +the other is not the British Fleet. But is there no bond of +union?</p> +<p><i>Lord George.</i> Most assuredly there is—you pay for +both. But, pardon me, I beg you will not further interrupt me. So, +now that we have the two Fleets face to face, or, I should say, bow +to starn, we proceed exactly as if there were a real quarrel +between them. We spend money on coal, we spend money on pay, we +spend money on ammunition. Nay, by my life, we spend money on +everything—just as we should do if war were really declared! +That's simple enough.</p> +<p><i>Sir John.</i> I confess your plan <i>does</i> seem +simple.</p> +<p><i>Lord George.</i> And there is more behind. We are not +satisfied with merely spending money—we learn a lesson as +well. Come, you must confess <i>that</i> surprises you?</p> +<p><i>Sir John.</i> Well, I admit that generally, where there is +any spending of money, it is <i>I</i> who learn the lesson.</p> +<p><i>Lord George.</i> Good—distinctly good! But let us be +serious. Well, when we are carrying on a war by every means in our +power, we fancy that one Fleet is chasing the other. They both have +equal speed, and we give one Fleet twenty-four hours' start of the +other, and will you believe me that, although the first follows the +second as fast as may be from the beginning to the end of the +manoeuvring, they never see one another! On my life—never! +They never see the British Fleet, because it's not in sight!</p> +<p><i>Sir John</i>. But could you not have learned all this without +so great an expenditure of money?</p> +<p><i>Lord George.</i> Well, no, Sir JOHN—not at the +Admiralty!</p> +<p><i>Sir John.</i> And how do you end the farce?</p> +<p><i>Lord George.</i> In the usual fashion, Sir JOHN <i>(ignites +blue fire)</i>—in smoke!</p> +<p><i>[The characters are lost in the fog customary to the +occasion.<br /> +Curtain.</i></p> +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page102" id="page102"></a>[pg +102]</span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href= +"images/102.png"><img width="100%" src="images/102.png" alt= +"A SEVERE SABBATARIAN." /></a> +<h3>A SEVERE SABBATARIAN.</h3> +<p><i>Mr. Bung (Landlord of "Ye Pygge and Whistle").</i> "SUNDAY +LEAGUE, INDEED! <i>I'D</i> SUNDAY LEAGUE 'EM, IF I'D A +CHANCE!—BREAKIN' THE LORD'SD'Y, AND HINTERFERIN' WITH MY +TRYDE!"</p> +</div> +<hr /> +<h3>"SHADOWED!"</h3> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Shadowed! Ay, even in the holiday season,</p> +<p class="i2">The Statesman, in his hard-earned hour of ease,</p> +<p>Is haunted by forebodings, and with reason.</p> +<p class="i2">What is that spectre the tired slumberer sees?</p> +<p>The foul familiar lineaments affright him;</p> +<p class="i2">Its pose of menace and its pointing hand</p> +<p>To caution urge, to providence invite him,</p> +<p class="i2">To foil this scourge of the Distressful Land.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Who does <i>not</i> fear to speak of Forty-Seven,</p> +<p class="i2">When that same Shadow darkened all the isle?</p> +<p>Is <i>it</i> abroad once more? Avert it, Heaven!</p> +<p class="i2">On Order's lips it chills the dawning smile;</p> +<p>Awakener of hushed fears and hatreds dying,</p> +<p class="i2">Blighter of more than Nature's genial growth,</p> +<p>Herald of hungering lips, of children crying,</p> +<p class="i2">To hold thee imminent all hearts are loth.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Vain holiday nepenthe, sport's unbending,</p> +<p class="i2">The Statesman's burdened brain may not forget.</p> +<p>His cares are ceaseless and his toils unending,</p> +<p class="i2">Memories embarrass and forebodings fret.</p> +<p>The gun, the golf-club, and the rod avail not</p> +<p class="i2">In his tired heart to make full holiday;</p> +<p>E'en amidst pastime he must watch, and fail not,</p> +<p class="i2">Approaching ills, the shadows on the way.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Shadowed! And not by common gloom, poor Minister!</p> +<p class="i2">The passing shades that chequer every course.</p> +<p>This spectral presence is as stern and sinister</p> +<p class="i2">As <i>atra cura</i> on the rider's horse.</p> +<p>Before, the vision of the helpless peasant!</p> +<p class="i2">Behind, the famine phantom black and grim!</p> +<p>How should the holiday-hour, to all so pleasant,</p> +<p class="i2">Bring gladness true or genuine rest to him?</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Wake! There is need for provident prevision,</p> +<p class="i2">For watchful eye, and for most wary hand.</p> +<p>In mellow Autumn's interlude Elysian</p> +<p class="i2">The old grim Shadow strikes across the land.</p> +<p>May Heaven arrest its course, avert its terror,</p> +<p class="i2">And keep the Statesman who this foe must fight</p> +<p>From careless blindness and from blundering error,</p> +<p class="i2">Such as of old lent aid to the Black Blight.</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<h4>"Jack Sheppard Reversed."</h4> +<p>This is the title of an amusing article in last week's +<i>Saturday Review</i>. It is not the story of JACK SHEPPARD once +more done into rhyme. The title so happily selected is thoroughly +justified by the doings of an eccentric and original burglar, who, +broke <i>into</i> a prison! This certainly was JACK SHEPPARD +reversed with a vengeance! The hero of the escapade is said to be a +tinted native of Barbadoes—his portrait should be published +as a companion to the "penny plain" of his prototype as "twopence +coloured."</p> +<hr /> +<h4>Cardinal Manning's Precedence.</h4> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>It does not need heraldic lore</p> +<p class="i2">The Cardinal's place to find.</p> +<p>Of course he'll always come before</p> +<p class="i2">The ones who are behind.</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<h3>THE PHAGOCYTE.</h3> +<p class="center"><i>(The Story of a Blood Feud.)</i></p> +<blockquote> +<p class="note">[A microscopist has found an organism called the +Phagocyte in the blood, which pursues and devours the Bacilli.]</p> +</blockquote> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Strange the tale that Science tells.</p> +<p>Here are some devouring cells:</p> +<p>Ever watchful night and day,</p> +<p>They the vile Bacillus slay;</p> +<p>Wot we well he fears the bite</p> +<p>Of the guardian Phagocyte.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Hour by hour the fight goes on,</p> +<p>Till the silent battle's won;</p> +<p>Vainly do Bacilli shirk</p> +<p>When their deadly foe's at work;</p> +<p>Every microbe faints with fright</p> +<p>At the fearsome Phagocyte.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Should the Phagocyte not keep</p> +<p>Faithful ward, but go to sleep;</p> +<p>Then Bacillus, in high glee,</p> +<p>Works his will on you and me;</p> +<p>Danger would be ours to-night,</p> +<p>But for that same Phagocyte.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Such a tale of Science seems</p> +<p>Like the offspring of wild dreams;</p> +<p>Fiction surely, in good sooth,</p> +<p>Can invent no tale like truth.</p> +<p>Stranger story none could write</p> +<p>Than this of the Phagocyte.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>The Astronomer descries</p> +<p>Worlds on worlds beyond our eyes;</p> +<p>'Neath the microscope weird things</p> +<p>Erst unseen whirl round in rings;</p> +<p>Hence it is that we indite</p> +<p>Stanzas to the Phagocyte.</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page103" id="page103"></a>[pg +103]</span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href= +"images/103.png"><img width="100%" src="images/103.png" alt= +"SHADOWED!" /></a> +<h3>"SHADOWED!"</h3> +</div> +<hr /> +<!--Blank page 104--> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page105" id="page105"></a>[pg +105]</span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href= +"images/105.png"><img width="100%" src="images/105.png" alt= +"A SPECULATIVE OFFER." /></a> +<h3>A SPECULATIVE OFFER.</h3> +<p><i>Driver.</i> "NOW, TOM, WHEN WE ARRIVE AT THE TURN, I'LL SELL +YOU THE DOG-CART FOR A SOV!"</p> +</div> +<hr /> +<h2>MR. PUNCH'S SWIM ROUND THE WORLD.</h2> +<p class="center"><i>(From his own Prophetic Log-book.)</i></p> +<p><i>Herne Bay.</i>—The weather being extremely favourable, +I jumped off the end of the new pier, and, getting the benefit of +the flood tide, passed the Nore and inspected Southend. Swimming +quite easily, assisted by one or two short rests.</p> +<p><i>Margate.</i>—Beached this popular seaside place a few +hours later. Swam out of sight of the sands to rid myself of a view +of the excursion riff-raff thereon congregated. Sea completely +smooth, but cold. Took a nip of ——'s English +Cognac.</p> +<p><i>Ramsgate.</i>—Very pleased to find myself abreast of +the Royal Crescent, which seemed delightful. Cape Grisnez still +bearing N.E. by E. Munched one of ——'s excellent +Birchrod Biscuits.</p> +<p><i>Dover.</i>—Just had a good long rest in front of +Clarence Lawn, which glistened in the sunlight. Greatly refreshed +after a drink of ——'s Essence of Gravy beef.</p> +<p><i>Calais.</i>—A shower of rain came on at this point. +However, one of ——'s excellent umbrellas kept my head +dry, and, being easy to hold, did not prevent me from swimming and +writing up my log.</p> +<p><i>Gibraltar.</i>—I felt very fatigued going through the +Bay of Biscay, but recovered much of my strength off the fortress +by sucking one of ——'s capital Kill-cough Lozenges.</p> +<p><i>Malta.</i>—I have now been in the water six days and +three nights continuously, and yet am nearly as fresh as when I +started. I attribute this marvellous fact to my practice of sipping +——'s Essence of Coffeetine.</p> +<p><i>Aden.</i>—Water extremely hot, but am still confident +of success. Went to sleep for an hour in the Red Sea, smoking one +of ——'s Anti-alligator cigarettes, which are a real +preventive against crocodile annoyance.</p> +<p><i>Madras.</i>—Am continuing my side-stroke but somewhat +languidly. I half regretted that I was unable to go on shore to see +the Indian curiosities. Much refreshed after partaking of the +contents of ——'s Patent Luncheon Basket.</p> +<p><i>Singapore.</i>—Have now been continually in the water +for six weeks. Regret that my log should be so "scrappy," but my +time just now is very much occupied by other things. Tired, but +confident of success. During the last fortnight have fed with great +relish upon ——'s <i>Purée de foies gras.</i> It +is not only cheap, but excellent.</p> +<p><i>New Hebrides.</i>—Am now within measurable distance of +the end of my journey. Quite accustomed to the water. However, +greatly fatigued, and very pleased to eat some of ——'s +Alimentary Condiment.</p> +<p><i>Pitcairn Island.</i>—Glad to be again in these +latitudes. My strokes are now very feeble. I should have to give in +were it not for ——'s Medicated Mutton Broth, which +seems to be most nourishing.</p> +<p><i>Cape Town.</i>—In a fainting condition. Scarcely able +to hold this pen. Became better after eating ——'s +Digestible Plum Puddings, sold in tin canisters at 1s. 10d. per +pound.</p> +<p><i>Rio Janeiro.</i>—Terribly hot and exhausted. I have now +been three months continuously in the water, which is certainly a +long time. Much amused with a toy called ——'s +Mechanical Rabbit.</p> +<p><i>Cape Verde Islands.</i>—Almost unconscious from +fatigue. However, I can swim more easily after I have drunk a glass +or two of ——'s Cabbage Rose Temperance Non-Intoxicating +Sherry. It is a most admirable beverage.</p> +<p><i>Madeira.</i>—I move with the greatest difficulty, and +fear I must be sinking. I obtain great strength from an occasional +sip of ——'s "Beef-fibre" (title registered) which seems +to me worth twice its weight in gold.</p> +<p><i>Dublin.</i>—Have now been in the water continuously for +nearly half a year. Too feeble to look at Dublin. I am evidently +sinking, and can only keep off a relapse by eating ——'s +Patent Vegetable Substitute for Roast Pork.</p> +<p><i>Herne Bay.</i>—Returned dead—quite dead! Restored +to life by inhaling ——'s Vitality Producer.</p> +<p>N.B.—The above blanks will be filled up with real names. +For particulars apply at 85, Fleet Street Advertisement +Department.</p> +<hr /> +<h4>A Black Business.</h4> +<p>As stated in the <i>Daily Telegraph</i> of Thursday last, the +Russian Censor stamped out <i>Mr. Punch's</i> Cartoon, "From Nile +to Neva," and obliterated the verses. The <i>St. James's +Gazette</i> suggested that the Cartoon was thus reproduced in +Whistlerian fashion. It certainly is a study in black, without any +relief whatever. A Black business indeed! Who shall correct the +Censor Incensed? Even <i>Mr. Punch</i> himself would be chary about +visiting Petersburg, lest he should be "bound in Russia,"—and +sent to Siberia.</p> +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page106" id="page106"></a>[pg +106]</span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href= +"images/106.png"><img width="100%" src="images/106.png" alt= +"IMITATION THE SINCEREST FLATTERY." /></a> +<h3>IMITATION THE SINCEREST FLATTERY.</h3> +<i>(Effects of a Long Session in the House.)</i></div> +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page107" id="page107"></a>[pg +107]</span> +<h2>WHAT THE TAME RABBIT SAID TO THE GRAND OLD GARDENER.</h2> +<p class="center"><i>(Some way after "Alice in +Wonderland.")</i></p> +<p>"The work of Major MORANT is headed <i>Profitable Rabbit +Farming. (Laughter.)</i> Yes, that is a subject for merriment, +probably, on account of its comparative novelty, but it is also a +subject of satisfaction, which is akin to merriment, because this +rabbit-farming appears to be a very good and promising description +of pursuit.... That is the raising of tame rabbits."—<i>Mr. +Gladstone at the Hawarden Floral and Horticultural Society's +Show.</i></p> +<div class="figright" style="width:50%;"><a href= +"images/107.png"><img width="100%" src="images/107.png" alt= +"AMONG THE BUNNIES." /></a> +<h4>AMONG THE BUNNIES.</h4> +</div> +<p><i>These were the verses the Tame Rabbit recited</i>:—</p> +<div class="poem" style="margin-left:5%"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>The Grand Old Man was on the stir;</p> +<p class="i2">MORANT named me to him;</p> +<p>He gave me a good character;</p> +<p class="i2">I thought his meaning dim.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>He held me up; they thought it fun!</p> +<p class="i2">And laughed; he chid their glee.</p> +<p>If he should push this matter on,</p> +<p class="i2">What will become of Me?</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>He said I was a paying game,</p> +<p class="i2">Commending me as such.</p> +<p>That's the result of being tame,</p> +<p class="i2">And living in a hutch.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>My notion is that it is vain</p> +<p class="i2">For you, you Grand Old Fella,</p> +<p>To rave of rabbits in the rain,</p> +<p class="i2">Beneath a big umbrella.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Don't let them know <i>we</i> fatten best,</p> +<p class="i2">For this should ever be</p> +<p>A secret kept from all the rest,</p> +<p class="i2">Between yourself and me!</p> +</div> +</div> +<br clear="all" /> +<hr /> +<h2>LITERATURE AND LOTTERY.</h2> +<p class="center"><i>(By a Patron of the Popular Press.)</i></p> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Yes, I've "a literary taste,"</p> +<p class="i2">And patronise a weekly journal;</p> +<p>'Tis what is called <i>Scissors and Paste</i>,</p> +<p class="i2">The paper's poor, the print's infernal.</p> +<p>But what of that, when, week by week,</p> +<p class="i2">High at the sight of it hope rises?</p> +<p>What in my Magazine I seek</p> +<p class="i2">Is just—a medium for Prizes!</p> +<p>I can't be bothered to read much,</p> +<p class="i2">I like my literature in snippets.</p> +<p>My hope is, with good luck, to clutch</p> +<p class="i2">Villas, gold watches, sable tippets.</p> +<p>A coupon and some weekly pence</p> +<p class="i2">Give me a chance of an annuity.</p> +<p>Oh, the excitement is intense!</p> +<p class="i2">I read with ardent assiduity,</p> +<p><i>Not</i> what the poor ink-spillers say</p> +<p class="i2">In sparkling "par," or essay solemn;</p> +<p>No, what I read, with triumph gay</p> +<p class="i2">Or hope deferred, is—the Prize Column!</p> +<p>On prose my time I seldom waste,</p> +<p class="i2">And poetry is poor and pottery.</p> +<p>But oh! I have an ardent taste</p> +<p class="i2">For Literature when linked with Lottery!</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<h3>ROBERT'S LITTLE HOLLERDAY.</h3> +<p>My hollerday, or sum of it, was spent in Hopen Spaces. Hif +anybody as has got two eyes in his hed, and a hart in his buzzom, +wants for to see what can be done with about 40 hakers of +land—witch the most respecfool Gardiner told me was about the +size of the Queen's Park at Kilburn—let him go there on a +fine Summer's Arternoon, and see jest about five thowsen children a +playing about there, all free, and hindependent, and appy, with two +fountings to drink when they're ot and thirsty, and a nice littel +Jim Nasyum to climb up and down. They ain't allowed to play at +Cricket coz there ain't not room enuf, but I did see two bold +littel chaps, about six a peace, a breaking of the Law, and a +playing at the forbidden game, with a jacket for the wicket and a +stick for a Bat, and the kind-arted Gardiner hadn't got hart enuff +to stop 'em.</p> +<p>He told me as how, when the Copperashun fust took possesshun of +it, it was nothink but a Baron Swomp, but that, what with the +spending of lots of money, and the souperintending genus of Major +MAKENZIE, in two years it was maid to blossom like a rose. I spent +a werry plessant arternoon there, and drove home in style on the +Box Seat of a reel Company's Bus. The nex day I went to Higate +Wood, another of the grate works of the good old Copperashun. And +lawks, what a difference! No swarms of children a playing about on +the grass, but lots and lots on 'em a racing about among the +hundreds of trees, and their warious fathers and mothers a looking +on with smiling faces and prowd looks. There is one place in the +werry middle of the Wood where no less than sewen parths meets, and +there the Copperashun Committee has bilt up a bewtifool Founting, +and a long hinskripshun in praise of Water, tho I shood dout if +they speaks from werry much pussonal xperience. I was told as how, +when they fust hopened the Founting, the Chairman made a bewtifool +speech, and ended by saying, "Water, brite Water for me, and Wine +for the trembling Debborshee," and then they all went off to a +jolly good dinner.</p> +<p>With that artistick taste as so distinguishes 'em, they have +crissened the place where the seven roads meets, "The Seven Dials." +There was crowds of peeple there, all enjoying of themselves in a +nice quiet way, and altogether it was a werry werry nice site.</p> +<p>The werry next day I started in the warm sunshine for pretty +West Ham Park, and had a leetle adwenture as ushal, for jest as I +got there who shoud I meet but the rayther sillybrated Parson of +the Parish—tho' judgin by aperiences I shoud have took him +for the Bishop of ESSEX—and seeing me in my new Hat and my +best black Coat, he werry naterally took me for a inquiring +Wisitor, and told me all about the good deed of the Copperashun in +saving the Park for the good of the Peeple. There was some werry +little chaps a playing Cricket as before despite of the Law, and +they had a reel bat too, and one on 'em, seeing me a looking on +apruvingly, gave the ball such a tremenjus blow that he got a +tooer, so I called out braywo!</p> +<p>There seemed a lot of washing going on jest outside the Park, +the white shirts and settera, flustering gaily in the breeze. But, +as the Poet says, "they're allus Washing somewheres in the World!" +The common peeple was orderd to walk on the footpaths, but a +gardiner told me as them orders was not ment for such as me. I had +a most copious Lunch for tuppense in the helegant Pawillion, and +being in a jowial and ginerus mood, I treated six of the jewwenile +natives to a simmeler Bankwet. Then there is the sillibrated Band +as the Copperashun perwides twice a week, on which occasions +reserwed seats is charged a penny each. The werry adwanced state of +the musical taste of the nayberhood may be judged by the fact, that +at a Concert close by, a "Ode to a Butterfly" was to be played on a +base Trombone!</p> +<p>The Gardiner told me as there was such a crowd of children on +larst Bank Hollerday that there was hardly room to move about, tho' +the Park is 80 hakers big; but as I am told that such a space wood +hold about 80 thousand, quite cumferal, I thinks as he must have +slitely xadgerated.</p> +<p class="author">ROBERT.</p> +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page108" id="page108"></a>[pg +108]</span> +<h3>A STRIKING NURSERY RHYME.</h3> +<p class="center"><i>(With a Moral.)</i></p> +<div class="poem" style="margin-left:35%"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Tilbury, Tilbury Dock!</p> +<p>The men struck—on a rock;</p> +<p class="i2">For their U-ni-on</p> +<p class="i2">Said, "Wrong you have done!"</p> +<p>Tilbury, Tilbury Dock!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Tilbury, Tilbury scare!</p> +<p>This "Striking" seems in the air.</p> +<p class="i2">Conciliation</p> +<p class="i2">Should free the nation</p> +<p>From Tilbury, Tilbury scare!</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<h2>THE PROFESSIONAL GUEST.</h2> +<h4>AT THE SEA-SIDE.</h4> +<div class="figleft" style="width:45%;"><a href= +"images/108.png"><img width="100%" src="images/108.png" alt= +"AT THE SEA-SIDE." /></a></div> +<p>DEAR MR. PUNCH,—When I last wrote to you I was +anticipatorily revelling in the sea-bathing, tennis tournaments, +pier band, and evening promenades of Flatsands. Alas! that I must +confess it, but, after a fortnight's visit to that "salubrious +spot" (<i>vide</i> highly-coloured advertisements), I give it as my +opinion that Flatsands is a failure; and I think that, when you +have listened to, or rather perused, my tale of woe, you will agree +with me that it is a place to be avoided at all costs.</p> +<p>On the difficulties and length of my journey thither (I changed +five times, and spent nine hours in doing so), I will not dwell, +neither will I lay stress on the fact that, when I did at last +reach my destination, a prospect void of either Aunt, or conveyance +of any kind, met my view, or that a heavy sea-mist had gathered, +and was falling in the guise of penetrating, if fine, rain. After +parleying with the station-master for some time, I ascertained that +the station 'bus never put in an appearance in wet weather, and +that I could not get a closed fly, because the Flatsands' +conveyances were all pony-traps, and therefore hoodless. He, +however, directed me towards Balmoral, which was my Aunt's address, +and told me that ten minutes' walk would take me, and that my +luggage should be sent after me, on a truck.</p> +<p>After some difficulty, for the sea-fog was very thick, I +discovered Balmoral, but not my Aunt. The truculent-looking +proprietor of the house, who answered the door, condescended to +inform me that my relative "was the difficultest lady he'd ever had +to do for. And that she'd left two days a-gone." But where she had +betaken herself to, he either would not or could not tell me. +"You'd best try along this row," he said, and then slammed the door +in my face. Having nothing better to do, I followed his advice, and +"tried along the row." I rang at Osborne, Sandringham, and Windsor. +I knocked at Claremont (the bell was broken there), and walked +boldly into Marlborough House, for that royal residence in +particular was devoid of all ordinary means of heralding one's +approach. I was just giving up my quest in despair, when through +the rain, which was now falling heavily, I spied a small stucco +villa standing shrinkingly back behind a row of palings, which, in +spite of their green paint, looked more like domestic fire-sticks +than anything else. The somewhat suggestive name of Frogmore was +inscribed on the small gate, and I remembered that I quite shivered +as I walked up the sloppy path, with my usual inquiry ready to +hand. This time, though, I was right, and when, a few minutes +later, I was sitting before a roaring fire, imbibing hot tea, and +listening to my Aunt's account of her latest complaint (did I tell +you she was hypochondriacal?) I felt that really and at last I was +in for a pleasant visit.</p> +<p>The evening proved a short one, for Aunt retired at nine, for +which I was not sorry, as by that time the atmosphere of the +sitting-room was distinctly stuffy, and neither dinner, nor the +fumes of the invalid's hot-and-strong "night-cap" improved it. Next +morning I sympathised with her on the fact that, soon after she had +gone to bed, the young lady on the drawing-room floor (for two +other families shared Frogmore's roof with us) had begun to sing, +and had continued her performances till midnight; but I found my +commiseration wasted, for she said that it had soothed her, which +was considerably more than it had done me. After +breakfast—which was late, on account of Aunt's health—I +proposed a stroll on the Promenade, or an inspection of the tennis +courts. "Bless my soul!" cried Auntie, "a person in my state of +health does not go to places all over promenades and tennis courts. +You won't find any such things at a nice quiet resort like +Flatsands." I felt a little dashed, but replied "that perhaps she +was right, and that it was a nice change to be without tennis; and +that, as to promenades, they were quite superfluous where there was +a pier, and a good band." "A pier, child!" she screamed. "You won't +find any such abominations as piers here, or German bands either. +Do you think that <i>I</i> should come anywhere where there was a +pier?" I felt the smile on my face becoming fixed, but I mastered +my feelings sufficiently to murmur something about bathing before +lunch.</p> +<p>"You can't bathe here," snapped Aunt—"they don't allow it. +The shore is too dangerous. But you can come out with me, if you +like, to the tradespeople—I see my bath-chair coming along +the road."</p> +<p>And that, <i>Mr. Punch</i>, is how I spent my fortnight at +Flatsands. Walking by the side of my Aunt's chair, and giving +orders to the tradespeople in the morning; walking beside the same +chair and blowing up the tradespeople for not having carried out +the orders, in the afternoon; sitting in a hot room from five to +nine o'clock, then lying awake till midnight, listening to the +drawing-room young lady singing Italian and German songs out of +tune, and with an English accent.</p> +<p>Three things only occurred to in any way vary the monotony of my +existence. The first was the arrival of the singing young lady's +brother. He was seventeen, and his lungs were as thick as his +boots. He tobogganed down-stairs on a tea-tray the first day he +arrived; the second day he passed me in the hall and asked, with a +grin, "if I was one of the mummies in this old mausoleum?" the +third day he left, saying that the place was "too jolly beastly +slow" for him. The second event was the sudden extraordinary mania +that Aunt (did I tell you she was rich?) took for the singing lady. +I discovered, much to my chagrin, I must say, that often, instead +of going to bed at nine, as I believed she did, she used to +ensconce herself in the drawing-room, and there sit and listen to +indifferent music till all hours. It was this second event which +brought about the third excitement. For having been a little +imprudent one night, in the matter of "night-caps," or careless as +to draughts, my Aunt was taken seriously ill. At least she chose to +think herself so, though I now have vague suspicions that the +singing lady knew more about it all than she cared to tell. All I +know is that the doctor was sent for, and that, after a long confab +in the sick room, he came to me and ordered my immediate return +home. "Your poor Aunt requires perfect quiet," he said.</p> +<p>Having no choice in the matter, I packed my boxes; not exactly +with reluctance, but still with an uncomfortable feeling of being +wanted out of the way. Aunt's last words to me rather confirmed my +suspicions. "Ah! you are off, are you? Well, I may pull through +this time—I think I feel better already." Then, with a +pecking kiss, and an inaudible remark anent the ingratitude of +relations, she dismissed me. As I left the house I distinctly heard +that singing creature run up-stairs and into Aunt's room.</p> +<p>On the way back to town I decided that she (Aunt I mean) was +right—relations are <i>disgustingly</i> ungrateful.</p> +<p class="author">Yours, much hurt, + THE +ODD GIRL OUT.</p> +<hr /> +<h4>To the Champion (Cricket) County.</h4> +<div class="poem" style="margin-left:25%"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p><i>"Skilful Surrey's sage commands."</i></p> +<p class="i2">There is a cue from WALTER SCOTT!</p> +<p>(<i>Not</i> Surrey's "WALTER.") <i>Punch</i> claps hands,</p> +<p class="i2">And sings out, "Bravo, SHUTER'S Lot!"</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<h3>THEATRICAL PROBABILITIES.</h3> +<p>New pieces by HENRY AUTHOR JONES, author of <i>Judah, The +Deacon, &c.:—The Archbishop; The Salvationist, or +Boothiful for Ever! The Rural Dean</i> (a pastoral play); <i>The +Chorister</i>, a stirring drama, showing how a Chorister struggled +with his conscience. Of course the Rev. Mr. WILLARD will have the +principal part in each piece. Then there will be special nights for +the Ministers of all denominations. There will be a +<i>Matinée</i> of <i>Precedence</i>, to which Cardinal +MANNING and all his clergy will be invited. After the play is over, +the Right Reverend Dr. WILLARD will preach a sermon to the +Cardinal, on his duties generally.</p> +<p>As long as only the orthodox witness these performances all will +go well. But what a first night that will be when the Right +Reverend Dr. WILLARD and the Reverend HENRY AUTHOR JONES find that +some play has been produced in the presence of an audience composed +entirely of Dissenters! <i>Absit omen!</i> This may never happen if +only serious persons in orders, or rather with orders, are +admitted.</p> +<hr class="full" /> +<div class="figleft" style="margin-bottom:10em"><img src= +"images/108-1.png" alt="pointer" /></div> +<p>NOTICE.—Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether +MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will +in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and +Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be +no exception.</p> +<hr class="full" /> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. +99, August 30, 1890., by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH *** + +***** This file should be named 12378-h.htm or 12378-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/3/7/12378/ + +Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Sandra Brown and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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