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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12468 ***</div>
    <h1>PUNCH,<br />
     OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.</h1>

    <h2>Vol. 99.</h2>
    <hr class="full" />

    <h2>October 25, 1890.</h2>
    <hr class="full" />
    <span class="pagenum"><a name="page193"
       id="page193"></a>[pg 193]</span> 

    <h2>MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS.</h2>

    <h3>No. IV.&mdash;BOB SILLIMERE.</h3>

    <h4>(<i>By Mrs.</i> HUMPHRY JOHN WARD PREACHER, <i>Author of
    "Master Sisterson."</i>)</h4>

    <blockquote class="note">
        <p>[On the paper in which the MS. of this novel was
        wrapped, the following note was written in a bold feminine
        hand:&mdash;"This is a highly religious story. GEORGE ELIOT
        was unable to write properly about religion. The novel is
        certain to be well reviewed. It is calculated to adorn the
        study-table of a Bishop. The &pound;1000 prize must be
        handed over at once to the Institute which is to be founded
        to encourage new religions in the alleys of St.
        Pancras.&mdash;H.J.W.P."]</p>
    </blockquote>

    <h4>CHAPTER I.</h4>

    <p>It was evening&mdash;evening in Oxford. There are evenings
    in other places occasionally. Cambridge sometimes puts forward
    weak imitations. But, on the whole, there are no evenings which
    have so much of the true, inward, mystic spirit as Oxford
    evenings. A solemn hush broods over the grey quadrangles, and
    this, too, in spite of the happy laughter of the undergraduates
    playing touch last on the grass-plots, and leaping, like a
    merry army of marsh-dwellers, each over the back of the other,
    on their way to the deeply impressive services of their
    respective college chapels. Inside, the organs were pealing
    majestically, in response to the deft fingers of many highly
    respectable musicians, and all the proud traditions, the
    legendary struggles, the well-loved examinations, the
    affectionate memories of generations of proctorial officers,
    the innocent rustications, the warning appeals of authoritative
    Deans&mdash;all these seemed gathered together into one last
    loud trumpet-call, as a tall, impressionable youth, carrying
    with him a spasm of feeling, a Celtic temperament, a moved,
    flashing look, and a surplice many sizes too large for him,
    dashed with a kind of quivering, breathless sigh, into the
    chapel of St. Boniface's just as the porter was about to close
    the door. This was ROBERT, or, as his friends lovingly called
    him, BOB SILLIMERE. His mother had been an Irish lady, full of
    the best Irish humour; after a short trial, she was, however,
    found to be a superfluous character, and as she began to
    develop differences with CATHERINE, she caught an acute
    inflammation of the lungs, and died after a few days, in the
    eleventh chapter.</p>

    <div class="figright"
         style="width:45%;">
        <a href="images/193.png"><img width="100%"
             src="images/193.png"
             alt="Squire Murewell and Bob Sillimere." /></a>
    </div>

    <p>BOB sat still awhile, his agitation soothed by the
    comforting sense of the oaken seat beneath him. At school he
    had been called by his school-fellows "the Knitting-needle," a
    remarkable example of the well-known fondness of boys for
    sharp, short nicknames; but this did not trouble him now. He
    and his eagerness, his boundless curiosity, and his lovable
    mistakes, were now part and parcel of the new life of
    Oxford&mdash;new to him, but old as the ages, that, with their
    rhythmic recurrent flow, like the pulse of&mdash;[<i>Two pages
    of fancy writing are here omitted.</i> ED.] BRIGHAM and BLACK
    were in chapel, too. They were Dons, older than BOB, but his
    intimate friends. They had but little belief, but BLACK often
    preached, and BRIGHAM held undecided views on life and
    matrimony, having been brought up in the cramped atmosphere of
    a middle-class parlour. At Oxford, the two took pupils, and
    helped to shape BOB's life. Once BRIGHAM had pretended, as an
    act or pure benevolence, to be a Pro-Proctor, but as he had a
    sardonic scorn, and a face which could become a marble mask,
    the Vice-Chancellor called upon him to resign his position, and
    he never afterwards repeated the experiment.</p>

    <h4>CHAPTER II.</h4>

    <p>One evening BOB was wandering dreamily on the banks of the
    Upper River. He sat down, and thought deeply. Opposite to him
    was a wide green expanse dotted with white patches of geese.
    There and then, by the gliding river, with a mass of reeds and
    a few poplars to fill in the landscape, he determined to become
    a clergyman. How strange that he should never have thought of
    this before; how sudden it was; how wonderful! But the die was
    cast; <i>alea jacta est</i>, as he had read yesterday in an
    early edition of St. Augustine; and, when BOB rose, there was a
    new brightness in his eye, and a fresh springiness in his
    steps. And at that moment the deep bell of St.
    Mary's&mdash;[<i>Three pages omitted.</i> ED.]</p>

    <h4>CHAPTER III.</h4>

    <p>And thus BOB was ordained, and, having married CATHERINE, he
    accepted the family living of Wendover, though not before he
    had taken occasion to point out to BLACK that family livings
    were corrupt and indefensible institutions. Still, the thing
    had to be done; and bitterly as BOB pined for the bracing air
    of the East End of London, he acknowledged, with one of his
    quick, bright flashes, that, unless he went to Wendover, he
    could never meet Squire MUREWELL, whose powerful arguments were
    to drive him from positions he had never qualified himself,
    except by an irrational enthusiasm, to defend. Of CATHERINE a
    word must be said. Cold, with the delicate but austere firmness
    of a Westmoreland daisy, gifted with fatally sharp lines about
    the chin and mouth, and habitually wearing loose grey gowns,
    with bodices to match, she was admirably calculated, with her
    narrow, meat-tea proclivities, to embitter the amiable
    SILLIMERE's existence, and to produce, in conjunction with him,
    that storm and stress, that perpetual clashing of two estimates
    without which no modern religious novel could be written, and
    which not even her pale virginal grace of look and form could
    subdue. That is a long sentence, but, ah! how short is a merely
    mortal sentence, with its tyrannous full stop, against the
    immeasurable background of the December stars, by whose light
    BOB was now walking, with heightened colour, along the vast
    avenue that led to Wendover Hall, the residence of the ogre
    Squire.</p>

    <h4>CHAPTER IV.</h4>

    <p>The Squire was at home. On the door-step BOB was greeted by
    Mrs. FARCEY, the Squire's sister. She looked at him in her
    bird-like way. At other times she was elf-like, and played
    tricks with a lace handkerchief.</p>

    <p>"You know," she whispered to BOB, "we're all mad here. I'm
    mad, and he," she continued, bobbing diminutively towards the
    Squire's study-door, "he's mad too&mdash;as mad as a
    hatter."</p>

    <p>Before BOB had time to answer this strange remark, the
    study-door flew open, and Squire MUREWELL stepped forth. He
    rapped out an oath or two, which BOB noticed with faint
    politeness, and ordered his visitor to enter. The Squire was
    rough&mdash;very rough; but he had studied hard in Germany.</p>

    <p>"So you're the young fool," he observed, "who intends to
    tackle me. Ha, ha, that's a good joke. I'll have you round my
    little finger in two twos. Here," he went on gruffly, "take
    this book of mine in your right hand. Throw your eyes up to the
    ceiling." ROBERT, wishing to conciliate him, did as he desired.
    The eyes stuck there, and looked down with a quick lovable look
    on the two men below. "Now," said the Squire, "you can't see.
    Pronounce the word 'testimony' twice, slowly. Think of a
    number, multiply by four, subtract the Thirty-nine Articles,
    add a Sunday School and a packet of buns. Result, you're a
    freethinker." And with that he bowed BOB out of the room.</p>

    <h4>CHAPTER V.</h4>

    <p>A terrible storm was raging in the Rector's breast as he
    strode, regardless of the cold, along the verdant lanes of
    Wendover. "Fool that I was!" he muttered, pressing both hands
    convulsively to his sides. "Why did I not pay more attention to
    arithmetic at school? I could have crushed him, but I was
    ignorant. Was that result right?" He reflected awhile
    mournfully, but he could bring it out in no other way. "I must
    go through with it to the bitter end," he concluded, "and
    CATHERINE must be told." But the thought of CATHERINE knitting
    quietly at home, while she read Fox's <i>Book of Martyrs</i>,
    with a tender smile on her thin lips, unmanned him. He sobbed
    bitterly. The front-door of the Rectory was open. He walked
    in.&mdash;The rest is soon told. He resigned the Rectory, and
    made a brand-new religion. CATHERINE frowned, but it was
    useless. Thereupon she gave him cold bacon for lunch during a
    whole fortnight, and the brave young soul which had endured so
    much withered under this blight. And thus, acknowledging the
    novelist's artistic necessity, ROBERT died.&mdash;[THE
    END.]</p>
    <hr />

    <p>WINTER SEASON AT COVENT GARDEN.&mdash;Opening of Italian
    Opera last Saturday, with <i>Aida</i>. Very well done. "Wait"
    between Second and Third Act too long: "Waiters" in Gallery
    whistling. Wind whistling, too, in Stalls. Operatic and
    rheumatic. Rugs and fur capes might be kept on hire by
    Stall-keepers. Airs in <i>Aida</i> delightful: draughts in
    Stalls awful. Signor LAGO called before Curtain to receive
    First Night congratulations. Signor LAGO ought to do good
    business "in front," as there's evidently no difficulty in
    "raising the wind."</p>
    <hr />
    <span class="pagenum"><a name="page194"
       id="page194"></a>[pg 194]</span> 

    <div class="figcenter"
         style="width:100%;">
        <a href="images/194.png"><img width="100%"
             src="images/194.png"
             alt="" /></a>

        <h3>"L'ONION FAIT LA FORCE."</h3><i>John Bull</i>. "NOW, MY
        DEAR LITTLE PORTUGAL, AS YOU ARE STRONG BE WISE, OR YOU'LL
        GET YOURSELF INTO A PRETTY PICKLE!"
    </div>
    <hr />

    <h2>THE FIRE KING AND HIS FRIENDS.</h2>

    <h4>(<i>With acknowledgments to Monk Lewis and the Authors of
    "Rejected Addresses."</i>)</h4>

    <blockquote>
        <p>"No hardship would be inflicted upon manufacturers, if
        dangerous trades in general were subjected to such a
        supervision as would afford the largest attainable measure
        of security to all engaged in them. The case is one which
        urgently demands the consideration of Parliament, not only
        for the protection of work-people, but even for the
        protection of the Metropolis itself. It should never be
        forgotten that fire constitutes the gravest risk to which
        London is exposed."&mdash;<i>The Times</i>.</p>
    </blockquote>

    <div class="poem">
        <div class="stanza">
            <p>The Fire King one day rather furious felt,</p>

            <p class="i2">He mounted his steam-horse satanic;</p>

            <p>Its head and its tail were of steel, with a belt</p>

            <p>Of riveted boiler-plate proved not to melt</p>

            <p class="i2">With heat howsoever volcanic.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>The sight of the King with that flame-face of
            his</p>

            <p class="i2">Was something exceedingly horrid;</p>

            <p>The rain, as it fell on his flight, gave a fizz</p>

            <p>Like unbottled champagne, and went off with a
            whizz</p>

            <p class="i2">As it sprinkled his rubicund
            forehead.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>The sound of his voice as he soared to the sky</p>

            <p class="i2">Was that of a ghoul with the
            grumbles.</p>

            <p>His teeth were so hot, and his tongue was so
            dry,</p>

            <p>That his shout seemed us raucous as though one
            should try</p>

            <p>To play on a big drum with dumb-bells.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>From his nostrils a naphthaline odour outflows,</p>

            <p class="i2">In his trail a petroleum-whiff
            lingers.</p>

            <p>With crude nitro-glycerine glitter his hose,</p>

            <p>Suggestions of dynamite hang round his nose,</p>

            <p class="i2">And gunpowder grimeth his
            fingers.</p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page195"
               id="page195"></a>[pg 195]</span>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>His hair is of flame fizzing over his head,</p>

            <p class="i2">As likewise his heard and eye-lashes;</p>

            <p>His drink's "low-test naphtha," his nag, it is
            said,</p>

            <p>Eats flaming tow soaked in combustibles dread,</p>

            <p class="i2">Which hot from the manger he gnashes.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>The Fire King set spurs to the steed he
            bestrode,</p>

            <p class="i2">Intent to mix pleasure with profit.</p>

            <p>He was off to Vine Street in the Farringdon
            Road,</p>

            <p>And soon with the flames of fired naphtha it
            flowed</p>

            <p class="i2">As though 'twere the entry to Tophet.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>He sought HARROD's Stores whence soon issued a
            blast</p>

            <p class="i2">Of oil-flame that lighted the City</p>

            <p>Then he turned to Cloth Fair. Hold, my Muse! not too
            fast!</p>

            <p>On the Fire King's last victims in silence we'll
            cast</p>

            <p class="i2">A look of respectfullest pity.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>But the Fire King flames on; Now he pulls up to
            snatch</p>

            <p class="i2">Some fodder. The stable's in danger.</p>

            <p>His whip is a torch, and each spur is a match,</p>

            <p>And over the horse's left eye is a patch,</p>

            <p class="i2">To keep it from scorching the manger.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>But who is the Ostler, and who is his lad,</p>

            <p class="i2">In fodder-supplying alliance,</p>

            <p>Who feed the Fire King and his Steed? 'Tis too
            bad</p>

            <p>That TRADE should feed Fire, and his henchman seem
            glad</p>

            <p class="i2">To set wholesome Law at defiance.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>See, Trade stocks the manger, and there is the
            pail</p>

            <p class="i2">Full set by the imp Illegality!</p>

            <p>That fierce fiery Pegasus thus to regale,</p>

            <p>When he's danger and death from hot head to
            flame-tail,</p>

            <p class="i2">Is cruelly callous brutality.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>Ah, Justice looks stern, and, indeed, well she
            may,</p>

            <p class="i2">With such a vile vision before her.</p>

            <p>The ignipotent nag and its rider to stay</p>

            <p>In their dangerous course is her duty to-day,</p>

            <p class="i2">And to <i>do</i> it the public implore
            her.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>"By Jingo!" cries <i>Punch</i>, "you nefarious
            Two,</p>

            <p class="i2">Your alliance humanity jars on!</p>

            <p>If you feed the Fire Fiend, with disaster in
            view,</p>

            <p>And the chance of men's death, 'twere mere justice
            to do</p>

            <p class="i2">To have you indicted for arson!"</p>
        </div>
    </div>
    <hr />

    <div class="figcenter"
         style="width:60%;">
        <a href="images/195.png"><img width="100%"
             src="images/195.png"
             alt="" /></a>

        <h3>FELICITOUS QUOTATIONS.</h3>

        <p>"OH, ROBERT, THE GROUSE HAS BEEN KEPT TOO LONG! I WONDER
        YOU CAN EAT IT!"</p>

        <p>"MY DEAR, 'WE NEEDS MUST LOVE THE HIGHEST WHEN WE SEE
        IT!'"</p>

        <p>(<i>Guinevere.</i>)</p>
    </div>
    <hr />

    <h2>VOCES POPULI.</h2>

    <h4>AT THE FRENCH EXHIBITION.</h4>

    <p><i>Chorus of Arab Stall-keepers.</i> Come and look!
    Alaha-ba-li-boo! Eet is verri cold to-day! I-ah-rish Brandi!
    'Ere, <i>Miss</i>! you com' 'ere! No pay for lookin'. Alf a
    price! Verri pritti, verri nah-ice, verri cheap, verri moch!
    And so on.</p>

    <p><i>Chorus of British Saleswomen</i>. <i>Will</i> you allow
    me to show you this little novelty, Sir? <i>'Ave</i> you seen
    the noo perfume sprinkler? Do come and try this noo
    puzzle&mdash;no 'arm in <i>lookin'</i>, Sir. Very nice little
    novelties 'ere, Sir! 'Eard the noo French Worltz, Sir? every
    article is really very much reduced, &amp;c, &amp;c.</p>

    <h4>AT THE FOLIES-BERG&Egrave;RE.</h4>

    <blockquote>
        <p>SCENE&mdash;<i>A hall in the grounds. Several turnstiles
        leading to curtained entrances.</i></p>
    </blockquote>

    <p><i>Showmen</i> (<i>shouting</i>). Amphitrite, the Marvellous
    Floatin' Goddess. Just about to commence! This way for the
    Mystic Gallery&mdash;three Illusions for threepence! Atalanta,
    the Silver Queen of the Moon; the Oriental Beauty in the Table
    of the Sphinx, and the Wonderful Galatea, or Pygmalion's Dream.
    Only threepence! This way for the Mystic Marvel o' She! Now
    commencing!</p>

    <p><i>A Female Sightseer</i> (<i>with the air of a person
    making an original suggestion</i>). Shall we go in, just to see
    what it's like?</p>

    <p><i>Male Ditto</i>. May as well, now we <i>are</i> 'ere.
    (<i>To preserve himself from any suspicion of credulity.</i>)
    Sure to be a take-in o' some sort.</p>

    <blockquote>
        <p>[<i>They enter a dim apartment, in which two or three
        people are leaning over a barrier in front of a small
        Stage; the Curtain is lowered, and a Pianist is
        industriously pounding away at a Waltz</i>.</p>
    </blockquote>

    <p><i>The F.S.</i> (<i>with an uncomfortable giggle</i>). Not
    much to see <i>so</i> far, is there?</p>

    <p><i>Her Companion</i>. Well, they ain't begun yet.</p>

    <blockquote>
        <p>[<i>The Waltz ends, and the Curtain rises, disclosing a
        Cavern Scene.</i> Amphitrite, <i>in blue tights, rises
        through the floor.</i></p>
    </blockquote>

    <p><i>Amphitrite</i> (<i>in the Gallic tongue</i>). Mesdarms et
    Messures, j'ai 'honnoor de vous sooayter le bong jour!
    (<i>Floats, with no apparent support, in the air, and performs
    various graceful evolutions, concluding by reversing herself
    completely</i>). Bong swore, Mesdarms et messures, mes
    remercimongs!</p>

    <blockquote>
        <p>[<i>She dives below, and the Curtain descends.</i></p>
    </blockquote>

    <p><i>The F.S.</i> Is that all? I don't see nothing in
    <i>that</i>!</p>

    <p><i>Her Comp.</i> (<i>who, having paid for admission, resents
    this want of appreciation</i>). Why, she was off the ground the
    'ole of the time, wasn't she? I'd just like to see <i>you</i>
    turnin' and twisting about in the air as easy as she did with
    nothing to 'old on by!</p>

    <p><i>The F.S.</i> I didn't notice she was off the
    ground&mdash;yes, that <i>was</i> clever. I never thought o'
    that before. Let's go and see the other things now.</p>

    <p><i>Her Comp.</i> Well, if you don't see nothing surprising
    in 'em till they're all over, you might as well stop outside,
    <i>I</i> should ha' thought.</p>

    <p><i>The F.S.</i> Oh, but I'll notice more next
    time&mdash;you've got to get <i>used</i> to these things, you
    know.</p>

    <blockquote>
        <p>[<i>They enter the Mystic Gallery, and find themselves
        in a dim passage, opposite a partitioned compartment, in
        which is a glass case, supported on four pedestals, with a
        silver crescent at the back. The Illusions&mdash;to judge
        from a sound of scurrying behind the scenes&mdash;have
        apparently been taken somewhat unawares.</i></p>
    </blockquote>

    <p><i>The Female Sightseer</i> (<i>anxious to please</i>).
    They've done that 'alf-moon very well, haven't they?</p>

    <p><i>Voice of Showman</i> (<i>addressing the Illusions</i>).
    Now then, 'urry up there&mdash;we're all waiting for you.</p>

    <blockquote>
        <p>[<i>The face of "Atalanta, the Silver Queen of the
        Moon," appears, strongly illuminated, inside the glass-box,
        and regards the spectators with an impassive
        contempt&mdash;greatly to their confusion.</i></p>
    </blockquote>

    <p><i>The Male S.</i> (<i>in a propitiatory tone</i>). Not a
    bad-looking girl, is she? <i>Atalanta, the Queen of the Moon
    (to the Oriental Beauty in next
    <span class="pagenum"><a name="page196"
       id="page196"></a>[pg 196]</span> compartment</i>). Polly,
       when these people are gone, I wish you'd fetch me my
       work!</p>

    <blockquote>
        <p>[<i>The Sightseers move on, feeling crushed. In the
        second compartment the upper portion of a female is
        discovered, calmly knitting in the centre of a small table,
        the legs of which are distinctly visible.</i></p>
    </blockquote>

    <p><i>The Female S.</i> Why, wherever has the <i>rest</i> of
    her got to?</p>

    <p><i>The Oriental Beauty</i> (<i>with conscious
    superiority</i>). That's what you've got to find out.</p>

    <blockquote>
        <p>[<i>They pass on to interview "Galatea, or Pygmalion's
        Dream," whose compartment is as yet enveloped in
        obscurity.</i></p>
    </blockquote>

    <p><i>A Youthful Showman</i> (<i>apparently on familiar terms
    with all the Illusions</i>). Ladies and Gentlemen, I shell now
    'ave the honour of persentin' to you the wonderful Galatear, or
    Livin' Statue; you will 'ave an oppertoonity of 'andling the
    bust for yourselves, which will warm before your eyes into
    living flesh, and the lovely creecher live and speak. 'Ere,
    look sharp, carn't yer'! [<i>To</i> Galatea.</p>

    <p><i>Pygmalion's Dream</i> (<i>from the mystic gloom</i>).
    Wait a bit, till I've done warming my 'ands. Now you can turn
    the lights up ... there, you've bin and turned 'em <i>out</i>
    now, stoopid!</p>

    <p><i>The Y.S.</i> Don't you excite yourself. I know what I'm
    doin'.</p>

    <p>(<i>Turns the lights up, and reveals a large terra-cotta
    Bust.</i>) At my request, this young lydy will now perceed to
    assoom the yew and kimplexion of life itself. Galatear, will
    you oblige us by kindly coming to life?</p>

    <blockquote>
        <p>[<i>The Bust vanishes, and is replaced by a decidedly
        earthly Young Woman in robust health.</i></p>
    </blockquote>

    <p><i>The Y.S.</i> Thenk you. That's all I wanted of yer. Now,
    will you kindly return to your former styte?</p>

    <blockquote>
        <p>[<i>The Young Woman transforms herself into a hideous
        Skull.</i></p>
    </blockquote>

    <p><i>The Y.S.</i> (<i>in a tone of remonstrance</i>).
    No&mdash;no, not that ridiklous fice! We don't want to see what
    yer will be&mdash;it's very <i>loike</i> yer, I know, but
    still&mdash;(<i>The Skull changes to the Bust.</i>) Ah, that's
    more the stoyle! (<i>Takes the Bust by the neck and hands it
    round for inspection.</i>) And now, thenking you for your kind
    attention, and on'y orskin' one little fyvour of you, that is,
    that you will not reveal 'ow it is done, I will now bid you a
    very good evenin', Lydies and Gentlemen!</p>

    <p><i>The F.S.</i> (<i>outside</i>). It's wonderful how they
    can do it all for threepence, isn't it? We haven't seen
    <i>She</i> yet!</p>

    <p><i>Her Comp.</i> What, 'aven't you seen wonders enough? Come
    on, then. But you <i>are</i> going it, you know!</p>

    <blockquote>
        <p>[<i>They enter a small room, at the further end of which
        are a barrier and proscenium with drawn hangings.</i></p>
    </blockquote>

    <p><i>The Exhibitor</i> (<i>in a confidential tone, punctuated
    by bows</i>). I will not keep you waiting, Ladies and
    Gentlemen, but at once proceed with a few preliminary remarks.
    Most of you, no doubt, have read that celebrated story by Mr.
    RIDER HAGGARD, about a certain <i>She-who-must-be-obeyed</i>,
    and who dwelt in a place called K&ocirc;r, and you will also
    doubtless remember how she was in the 'abit of repairing, at
    certain intervals, to a cavern, and renooing her youth in a
    fiery piller. On one occasion, wishing to indooce her lover to
    foller her example, she stepped into the flame to encourage
    him&mdash;something went wrong with the works, and she was
    instantly redooced to a cinder. I fortunately 'appened to be
    near at the time (you will escuse a little wild fib from a
    showman, I'm sure!) I 'appened to be porsin by, and was thus
    enabled to secure the ashes of the Wonderful She,
    which&mdash;(<i>draws hangings and reveals a shallow metal Urn
    suspended in the centre of scene</i>), are now before you
    enclosed in that little urn. She&mdash;where are you?</p>

    <p><i>She</i> (<i>in a full sweet voice, from below</i>). I am
    'ere!</p>

    <p><i>Showman</i>. Then appear!</p>

    <blockquote>
        <p>[<i>The upper portion of an exceedingly comely Young
        Person emerges from the mouth of the Urn.</i></p>
    </blockquote>

    <p><i>The F.S.</i> (<i>startled</i>). Lor, she give me quite a
    turn!</p>

    <p><i>Showman</i>. Some people think this is all done by
    mirrors, but it is not so; it is managed by a simple
    arrangement of light and shade. She will now turn slowly round,
    to convince you that she is really inside the urn and not
    merely beyind it. (She <i>turns round condescendingly.</i>) She
    will next pass her 'ands completely round her, thereby
    demonstrating the utter impossibility of there being any wires
    to support her. Now she will rap on the walls on each side of
    her, proving to you that she is no reflection, but a solid
    reality, after which she will tap the bottom of the urn beneath
    her, so that you may see it really is what it purports to be.
    (She <i>performs all these actions in the most obliging
    manner</i>.) She will now disappear for a moment. (She <i>sinks
    into the Urn.</i>) Are you still there, She?</p>

    <p><i>She</i> (<i>from the recess of the Urn</i>). Yes.</p>

    <p><i>Showman</i>. Then will you give us some sign of your
    presence! (<i>A hand and arm are protruded, and waved
    gracefully.</i>) Thank you. Now you can come up again. (She
    <i>re-appears.</i>) She will now answer any questions any lady
    or gentleman may like to put to her, always provided you won't
    ask her how it is done&mdash;for I'm sure she wouldn't give me
    away, <i>would</i> you, She?</p>

    <p><i>She</i> (<i>with a slow bow and gracious smile</i>).
    Certingly not.</p>

    <p><i>The F.S.</i> (<i>to her Companion</i>). Ask her
    something&mdash;do.</p>

    <p><i>Her Comp.</i> Go on! <i>I</i> ain't got anything to ask
    her&mdash;ask her yourself!</p>

    <p><i>A Bolder Spirit</i> (<i>with interest</i>). Are your
    <i>feet</i> warm?</p>

    <p><i>She</i>. Quite&mdash;thanks.</p>

    <p><i>The Showman</i>. How old are you, She?</p>

    <p><i>She</i> (<i>impressively</i>). Two theousand years.</p>

    <p><i>'Arry.</i> And quite a young thing, too!</p>

    <p><i>A Spectator</i> (<i>who has read the Novel</i>). 'Ave you
    'eard from LEO VINCEY lately?</p>

    <p><i>She</i> (<i>coldly</i>). I don't know the gentleman.</p>

    <p><i>Showman</i>. If you have no more questions to ask her,
    She will now retire into her urn, thanking you all for your
    kind attendance this morning, which will conclude the
    entertainment.</p>

    <blockquote>
        <p>[<i>Final disappearance of</i> She. <i>The Audience pass
        out, feeling&mdash;with perfect justice&mdash;that they
        have "had their money's worth."</i></p>
    </blockquote>
    <hr />

    <h2>HOW IT'S DONE.</h2>

    <h4><i>A Hand-book of Honesty.</i></h4>

    <h3>No. III.&mdash;GRANDMOTHERLY GOVERNMENT.</h3>

    <blockquote>
        <p>SCENE I.&mdash;<i>St. Stephen's.</i> Sagacious
        Legislator <i>on his legs advocating a new
        Anti-Adulteration Act. Few M.P.'s present, most of them
        drowsing</i>.</p>
    </blockquote>

    <p><i>Sagacious Legislator</i>. As I was saying, Sir, the
    adulteration of Butter has been pushed to such abominable
    lengths that no British Workman knows whether what he is eating
    is the product of the Cow or of the Thames mud-banks. (<i>A
    snigger.</i>) Talk of a Free Breakfast Table! I would free the
    Briton's Breakfast Table from the unwholesome incubus of
    Adulteration. At any rate, if the customer chooses to purchase
    butter which is <i>not</i> butter, he shall do it knowingly,
    with his eyes open. (<i>Feeble "Hear, hear!"</i>) Under this
    Act anything which is not absolutely unsophisticated milk-made
    Butter must be plainly marked, and openly vended as
    Adipocerene!</p>

    <div class="figright"
         style="width:35%;">
        <a href="images/196.png"><img width="100%"
             src="images/196.png"
             alt="" /></a>
    </div>

    <blockquote>
        <p>[<i>Amidst considerable applause the Act is
        passed.</i></p>
    </blockquote>

    <blockquote>
        <p>SCENE II.&mdash;<i>Small Butterman's shop in a poor
        neighbourhood. Burly white-apron'd Proprietor behind
        counter. To him enter a pasty-faced Workman, with a greasy
        pat of something wrapped in a leaf from a ledger.</i></p>
    </blockquote>

    <p><i>Workman.</i> I say, Guv'nor, lookye here. This 'ere stuff
    as you sold my old woman, is simply beastly. I don't believe
    it's butter at all.</p>

    <p><i>Butterman</i> (<i>sneeringly</i>). And who said it
    <i>was</i>? What did your Missus buy it as?</p>

    <p><i>Workman</i>. Why, Adipo&mdash;whot's it, I believe. But
    that's only another name for butter of a cheaper sort, ain't
    it? Anyhow, it's no reason why it should be nasty.</p>

    <p><i>Butterman</i> (<i>loftily</i>). Now look here, my man,
    what do you expect? That's Adipocerene, that is, and <i>sold as
    such</i>. If you'll pay for Butter, you can have it; but if you
    ask for this here stuff, you must take yer chance.</p>

    <p><i>Workman</i>. But what's it made on?</p>

    <p><i>Butterman</i>. That's no business of mine. If you could
    anerlyse it&mdash;(mind, I don't say yer
    <i>could</i>)&mdash;into stale suet and sewer-scrapings, you
    couldn't prove as it warn't Adipocerene, same as it's sold for,
    could yer?</p>

    <p><i>Workman</i> (<i>hotly</i>). But hang it, I don't
    <i>want</i> stale suet and sewer-scrapings, whatsomever you may
    call it.</p>

    <p><i>Butterman</i> (<i>decisively</i>). Then buy Butter, and
    <i>pay</i> for it like a man, and don't come a-bothering me
    about things as I've nothink to do with. If Guv'ment
    <i>will</i> have it called Adipocerene, and your Missus
    <i>will</i> buy it becos it's cheap; don't you blame <i>me</i>
    if you find it nasty, that's all. Good morning!</p>

    <blockquote>
        <p>[<i>Retires up, "swelling visibly."</i></p>
    </blockquote>

    <p><i>Workman</i>. Humph! Betwixt Grandmotherly Government and
    Manufacturers of Mysteriousness, where <i>am</i> I? That's wot
    I want to know! [<i>Left wanting to know.</i></p>
    <hr />
    <span class="pagenum"><a name="page197"
       id="page197"></a>[pg 197]</span> 

    <h2>TO ENGELBERG AND BACK.</h2>

    <h4><i>Being a few Notes taken en route in search of a Perfect
    Cure.</i></h4>

    <p>The Engineers who constructed the gradually ascending road
    which, slowly mounting the valley, finally takes you over the
    ridge, as it were, and deposits you at a height of 3800 feet,
    dusty but grateful, on the plain of Engelberg, must have been
    practical jokers of the first water. They lead you up in the
    right direction several thousand feet, then suddenly turn you
    round, and apparently take you clean back again. And this not
    once, but a dozen times. They seem to say, "You think you must
    reach the top <i>this</i> time, my fine fellow? Not a bit of
    it. Back you go again."</p>

    <p>Still we kept turning and turning whither the
    Practical-joking Engineers led us, but seemed as far off from
    our journey's end as ever. A roadside inn for a moment deluded
    us with its light, but we only drew up in front of this while
    our gloomy charioteer sat down to a good square meal, the third
    he had had since three o'clock, over which he consumed exactly
    five-and-twenty minutes, keeping us waiting while he disposed
    of it at his leisure, in a fit of depressing but greedy
    sulks.</p>

    <p>At length we moved on again, and in about another
    half-an-hour apparently reached the limit of the
    Practical-joking Engineers' work, for our surly charioteer
    suddenly jumped on the box, and cracking his whip furiously,
    got all the pace that was left in them out of our three
    sagacious horses, and in a few more minutes we were tearing
    along a level road past scattered <i>ch&acirc;lets</i>, little
    wooden toy-shops, and isolated <i>pensions</i>, towards a
    colossal-looking white palace that stood out a grateful sight
    in the distance before us, basking in the calm white-blue blaze
    shed upon it from a couple of lofty electric lights, that told
    us that up here in the mountains we were not coming to rough
    it, but to be welcomed by the latest luxuries and refinements
    of first-rate modern hotel accommodation. And this proved to be
    the case. Immediately he arrived in the large entrance-hall,
    the Dilapidated One was greeted by the Landlord of the Hotel et
    Kurhaus, Titlis, politely assisted to the lift, and finally
    deposited in the comfortable and electrically-lighted room
    which had been assigned to him.</p>

    <p>"We are extremely full," announced the polite Herr to Dr.
    MELCHISIDEC; "and we just come from finishing the second
    dinner,"&mdash;which seemed to account for his being "extremely
    full,"&mdash;"but as soon as you will descend from your rooms,
    there will be supper ready at your disposition."</p>

    <p>"You'll just come and look at the Bath-chair before you turn
    in?" inquired Dr. MELCHISIDEC, of the Dilapidated One, "It's
    arrived all right from Zurich. Come by post, apparently."</p>

    <p>"Oh, that's nothing," continued young JERRYMAN, "why,
    there's nothing you can't send by post in Switzerland, from a
    house full of furniture, down to a grand piano or cage of
    canaries. You've only got to clap a postage-stamp on it, and
    there you are!" And the arrival of the Bath-chair certainly
    seemed to indicate that he was telling something very like the
    truth.</p>

    <div class="figleft"
         style="width:45%;">
        <a href="images/197-1.png"><img width="100%"
             src="images/197-1.png"
             alt="" /></a>The Trick Chair.
    </div>

    <p>"I don't quite see how this guiding-wheel is to act,"
    remarked Dr. MELCHISIDEC, examining the chair, which was of
    rather pantomimic proportions, critically; "but suppose you
    just get in and try it! 'Pon my word it almost looks like a
    'trick-chair'!" which indeed it proved itself to be, jerking up
    in a most unaccountable fashion the moment the Dilapidated One
    put his foot into it, and unceremoniously sending him flying
    out on to his head forthwith. "A little awkward at first," he
    remarked, assisting the Dilapidated One on to his feet. "One
    has to get accustomed to these things, you see; but, bless you,
    in a day or two you won't want it at all. You'll find the air
    here like a continual draught of champagne. 'Pon my word, I
    believe you feel better already," and with this inspiriting
    assurance the Dilapidated One, who had not only covered himself
    with dust, but severely bruised his shins, saying that "he
    thought, perhaps, he did&mdash;just a little," was again
    assisted to the lift, and safely consigned to his room, where
    he was comfortably packed away for the night.</p>

    <p>"I say," says young JERRYMAN, next morning, "what a place
    for bells!"</p>

    <div class="figright"
         style="width:45%;">
        <a href="images/197-2.png"><img width="100%"
             src="images/197-2.png"
             alt="" /></a>A Peripatetic Peal.
    </div>

    <p>And young JERRYMAN was right, for I was awoke in the small
    hours of the morning by a loud peal from the Monastery, as if
    the Prior had suddenly said to himself, "What's the use of the
    bells if you don't ring 'em? By Jove, I will!" and had then and
    there jumped from his couch, seized hold of the ropes, and set
    to work with a right good will. Then the hotels and
    <i>pensions</i> took it up, and so, what with seven o'clock,
    eight o'clock, and nine o'clock breakfasts, first and second
    <i>d&eacute;jeuners</i>, first and second dinners, interspersed
    with "Office Hours" sounded by the Monastery, and the sound of
    the dinner-bells carried by the cattle, Dingle-berg, rather
    than Engelberg, would be a highly appropriate name for this
    somewhat noisy, but otherwise delightful health-resort.</p>

    <p>"I call this 'fatal dull' after Paris," remarked a fair
    Americaine to young JERRYMAN; and, perhaps, from a certain
    point of view, she may have been right; but, fatal dull, or
    lively, there can be no two opinions about the life-giving
    properties of the air.</p>
    <hr />

    <p>OLD JOE ENCORE.&mdash;Last Wednesday in the FARRAR <i>v.</i>
    Publisher discussion, a Correspondent, signing himself JOHN
    TAYLOR, of Dagnall Park, Selhurst, wrote to <i>The Times</i> to
    "quote an anecdote" about DOUGLAS JERROLD and "a Publisher."
    Rarely has a good old story been so spoilt in the telling as in
    this instance. The true story is of ALBERT SMITH and DOUGLAS
    JERROLD, and has been already told in the <i>Times</i> by a
    Correspondent signing himself "E.Y." It is of the same
    respectable age as that one of ALBERT SMITH signing his
    initials "A.S.," and JERROLD observing, "He only tells
    two-thirds of the truth." Perhaps Mr. JOHN TAYLOR, of Dagnall
    Park, Selhurst, is going to favour us with a little volume of
    "new sayings by old worthies" at Christmas time, and we shall
    hear how SHERIDAN once asked TOM B&mdash;&mdash; "why a miller
    wore a white hat?" And how ERSKINE, on hearing a witness's
    evidence about a door being open, explained to him that his
    evidence would be worthless, because a door could not be
    considered as a door "if it were a jar," and several other
    excellent stories, which, being told for the first time with
    the <i>verve</i> and local colouring of which the writer of the
    letter to <i>The Times</i> is evidently a past-master, will
    secure for the little work an enormous popularity.</p>
    <hr class="short" />

    <p>A SCOTT AND A LOT.&mdash;"Thirty Years at the Play" is the
    title of Mr. CLEMENT SCOTT's Lecture to be delivered next
    Saturday at the Garrick Theatre, for the benefit of the Actors'
    Benevolent Fund. Thirty years of Play-time! All play, and lots
    of work. Mr. IRVING is to introduce the lecturer to his
    audience, who, up to that moment, will have been "Strangers
    Yet," and this CLEMENT will be SCOTT-free to say what he likes,
    and to tell 'em all about it generally. "SCOTT" will be on the
    stage, and the "Lot" in the auditorium. Lot's Wife also.</p>
    <hr class="short" />

    <p>ETHER-DRINKING IN IRELAND.&mdash;Mr. ERNEST HART (bless his
    heart and earnestness!) lectured last week on "Ether-Drinking
    in Ireland." He lectured "The Society for the Study of
    Inebriety"&mdash;a Society which must be slightly
    "mixed"&mdash;on this bad habit, and no doubt implored them to
    give it up. The party sang, "<i>How Happy could we be with
    Ether</i>" and the discussion was continued until there was
    nothing more to be said.</p>
    <hr class="short" />

    <p>CLERGY IN PARLIAMENT.&mdash;As Bishops "sit" in the Upper
    House, why should not "the inferior clergy" "stand" for the
    Lower House? If they get in, why shouldn't they be seated?
    Surely what's right in the Bishop isn't wrong in the
    Rector?</p>
    <hr class="short" />

    <p>LITERARY ADVERTISEMENT.&mdash;The forthcoming work by the
    Vulnerable Archdeacon F-RR-R, will be entitled, <i>The
    Pharrarsee and the Publisher</i>.</p>
    <hr />
    <span class="pagenum"><a name="page198"
       id="page198"></a>[pg 198]</span> 

    <div class="figcenter"
         style="width:100%;">
        <a href="images/198.png"><img width="100%"
             src="images/198.png"
             alt="" /></a>

        <h3>"TRAIN UP A CHILD," &amp;c.</h3>

        <p><i>Enter Fair Daughter of the House with the Village
        Carpenter</i>. "MAMMA, YOU ALWAYS TOLD ME THAT KIND HEARTS
        WERE MORE THAN CORONETS, AND SIMPLE FAITH THAN NORMAN
        BLOOD, AND ALL THAT?"</p>

        <p><i>Lady Clara Robinson</i> (<i>n&eacute;e Vere de
        Vere</i>). "CERTAINLY DEAR, <i>MOST</i> CERTAINLY!"</p>

        <p><i>Fair Daughter</i>. "WELL, I'VE ALWAYS BELIEVED YOU;
        AND JIM BRADAWL HAS ASKED ME TO BE HIS WIFE, AND I'VE
        ACCEPTED HIM. WE'VE ALWAYS LOVED EACH OTHER SINCE YOU LET
        US PLAY TOGETHER AS CHILDREN!"</p>

        <p class="i4">[<i>Her Ladyship forgets, for once, the
        repose that stamps her caste.</i></p>
    </div>
    <hr />

    <h2>THE McGLADSTONE;</h2>

    <h3>OR, BLOWING THE BUGLE.</h3>

    <h4><i>(Fragments from the latest (Midlothian) version of "The
    Lord of the Isles."</i>)</h4>

    <div class="poem">
        <div class="stanza">
            <p>McGLADSTONE rose&mdash;his pallid cheek</p>

            <p>Was little wont his joy to speak,</p>

            <p class="i2">But then his colour rose.</p>

            <p>"Now, Scotland! shortly shalt thou see</p>

            <p>That age checks not McGLADSTONE's glee,</p>

            <p class="i2">Nor stints his swashing blows!"</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>Again that light has fired his eye,</p>

            <p>Again his form swells bold and high;</p>

            <p>The broken voice of age is gone,</p>

            <p>'Tis vigorous manhood's lofty tone.</p>

            <p>The foe he menaces again,</p>

            <p>Thrice vanquished on Midlothian's plain;</p>

            <p>Then, scorning any longer stay,</p>

            <p>Embarks, lifts sail, and bears away.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>Merrily, merrily bounds the bark,</p>

            <p class="i2">She bounds before the gale;</p>

            <p>The "flowing tide" is with her. Hark!</p>

            <p class="i2">How joyous in her sail</p>

            <p>Flutters the breeze like laughter hoarse!</p>

            <p class="i2">The cords and canvas strain,</p>

            <p>The waves divided by her force</p>

            <p>In rippling eddies, chase her course.</p>

            <p class="i2">As if they laughed again.</p>

            <p>'Tis then that warlike signals wake</p>

            <p>Dalmeney's towers, and fair Beeslack.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>And eke brave BALFOUR's walls (Q.C.</p>

            <p>And Scottish Dean of Faculty)</p>

            <p>Whose home shall house the great McG.</p>

            <p>A summons these to each stout clan</p>

            <p>That lives in far Midlothian,</p>

            <p class="i2">And, ready at the sight,</p>

            <p>Each warrior to his weapon sprung,</p>

            <p>And targe upon his shoulder flung,</p>

            <p class="i2">Impatient for the fight.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>Merrily, merrily, bounds the bark</p>

            <p class="i2">On a breeze to the northward free.</p>

            <p>So shoots through the morning sky the lark,</p>

            <p class="i2">Or the swan through the summer sea.</p>

            <p>Merrily, merrily, goes the bark&mdash;</p>

            <p>Before the gale she bounds;</p>

            <p>So darts the dolphin from the shark,</p>

            <p>Or the deer before the hounds.</p>

            <p>McGLADSTONE stands upon the prow,</p>

            <p>The mountain breeze salutes his brow,</p>

            <p>He snuffs the breath of coming fight,</p>

            <p>His dark eyes blaze with battle-light,</p>

            <p class="i2">And memories of old,</p>

            <p>When thus he rallied to the fray</p>

            <p>Against the bold BUCCLEUCH's array,</p>

            <p>His clansmen. In the same old way</p>

            <p>He trusts to rally them to-day.</p>

            <p>Shall he succeed? Who, who shall say?</p>

            <p>But neither fear no doubt may stay</p>

            <p class="i2">His spirit keen and bold!</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>He cries, the Chieftain Old and Grand,</p>

            <p>"I fight once more for mine own hand;</p>

            <p>Meanwhile our vessel nears the land,</p>

            <p>Launch we the boat, and seek the land!"</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>To land McGLADSTONE lightly sprung,</p>

            <p>And thrice aloud his bugle rung</p>

            <p>With note prolonged, and varied strain,</p>

            <p>Till Edin dun replied again.</p>

            <p>When waked that horn the party bounds,</p>

            <p>Scotia responded to its sounds;</p>

            <p>Oft had she heard it fire the fight,</p>

            <p>Cheer the pursuit, or stop the flight.</p>

            <p>Dead were her heart, and deaf her ear,</p>

            <p>If it should call, and she not hear.</p>

            <p>The shout went up in loud Clan-Rad's tone,</p>

            <p class="i2">"<i>That</i> blast was winded by
            McGLADSTONE!"</p>
        </div>
    </div>
    <hr />

    <p>RUM FROM JAMAICA&mdash;VERY.&mdash;When "the bauble" was
    removed from the table of the House, by order of OLIVER
    CROMWELL, it was sent with somebody's compliments at a later
    date to Jamaica, and placed on the Parliament table. What
    became of it nobody knows. It is supposed that this ensign of
    ancient British Royalty was swallowed up by an earthquake of
    republican tendencies. Jamaica, of course, is a great place for
    spices; but, in spite of all the highly spiced stories, the
    origin of which is more or less aus-spice-ious, it is to be
    regretted that, up to the present moment, what gave them their
    peculiar flavour, <i>i.e.</i>, the original Mace, cannot be
    found.</p>
    <hr />
    <span class="pagenum"><a name="page199"
       id="page199"></a>[pg 199]</span> 

    <div class="figcenter"
         style="width:100%;">
        <a href="images/199.png"><img width="100%"
             src="images/199.png"
             alt="" /></a>

        <h3>THE McGLADSTONE!</h3>

        <div class="poem">
            <div class="stanza">
                <p>"TO LAND McGLADSTONE LIGHTLY SPRANG,</p>

                <p>AND THRICE ALOUD HIS BUGLE RANG</p>

                <p>WITH NOTE PROLONG'D AND VARIED STRAIN,</p>

                <p>TILL BOLD BEN-GHOIL REPLIED AGAIN."</p>

                <p class="i10"><i>"Lord of the Isles." Canto
                IV.</i></p>
            </div>
        </div>
    </div>
    <hr />
    <span class="pagenum"><a name="page201"
       id="page201"></a>[pg 201]</span> 

    <h2>WANTED&mdash;-A SOCIETY FOR THE PROTECTION OF
    "CELEBRITIES."</h2>

    <div class="figright"
         style="width:30%;">
        <a href="images/201.png"><img width="100%"
             src="images/201.png"
             alt="" /></a>
    </div>

    <p>When some years ago EDMUNDUS ED. MUNDI first introduced to
    London the gentle art of Interviewing, the idea was in a
    general way a novelty in this country. It "caught on," and
    achieved success. Some public men affected, privately, not to
    like the extra publicity given to their words and actions; but
    it was only an affectation, and in a general way a great many
    suddenly found themselves dubbed "Celebrities," hall-marked as
    such by <i>The World</i>, and able therefore to hand themselves
    down to posterity, in bound volumes containing this one
    invaluable number as having been recognised by the world at
    large as undoubted Celebrities, ignorance of whose existence
    would argue utter social insignificance. So great was the
    <i>World's</i> success in this particular line, that at once
    there sprang up a host of imitators, and the Celebrities were
    again tempted to make themselves still more celebrated by
    having good-natured caricatures of themselves made by "Age" and
    "Spy." After this, the deluge, of biographies, autobiographies,
    interviewings, photographic realities, portraits plain and
    coloured&mdash;many of them uncommonly plain, and some of them
    wonderfully coloured,&mdash;until a Celebrity who has
    <i>not</i> been done and served up, with or without a plate, is
    a Celebrity indeed.</p>

    <p>"Celebrities" have hitherto been valuable to the
    interviewer, photographer, and proprietor of a Magazine in due
    proportion. Is it not high time that the Celebrities themselves
    have a slice or two out of the cake? If they consent to sit as
    models to the interviewer and photographer, let them price
    their own time. The Baron offers a model of correspondence on
    both sides, and, if his example is followed, up goes the price
    of "Celebrities," and, consequently, of interviewed and
    interviewers, there will be only a survival of the fittest.</p>

    <h4><i>From A. Sophte Soper to the Baron de
    Book-Worms.</i></h4>

    <p>SIR,&mdash;Messrs. TOWER, FONDLER, TROTTING &amp; Co., are
    now engaged in bringing out a series of the leading Literary,
    Dramatic and Artistic Notabilities of the present day, and
    feeling that the work which has now reached its
    hundred-and-second number, would indeed be incomplete did it
    not include <i>your</i> name, the above-mentioned firm has
    commissioned me to request you to accord me an interview as
    soon as possible. I propose bringing with me an eminent
    photographer, and also an artist who will make a sketch of your
    surroundings, and so contribute towards producing a complete
    picture which cannot fail to interest and delight the thousands
    at home and abroad, to whom your name is as a household word,
    and who will be delighted to possess a portrait of one whose
    works have given them so much pleasure, and to obtain a closer
    and more intimate acquaintance with the <i>modus operandi</i>
    pursued by one of their most favourite authors.</p>

    <p>I remain, Sir, yours truly,</p>

    <p>A. SOPHTE SOPER.</p>

    <p><i>To the</i> BARON DE BOOK-WORMS, <i>Vermoulen
    Lodge</i>.</p>

    <h4><i>From the Baron de Book-Worms to A. Sophte Soper,
    Esq.</i></h4>

    <p>DEAB SIR,&mdash;Thanks. I quite appreciate your
    appreciation. My terms for an article in a Magazine, are twenty
    guineas the first hour, ten guineas the second, and so on. For
    dinner-table anecdotes, the property in which once made public
    is lost for ever to the originator, special terms. As to
    photographs, I will sign every copy, and take twopence on every
    copy. I'm a little pressed for time now, so if you can manage
    it, we will defer the visit for a week or two, and then I'm
    your man.</p>

    <p>Yours truly,</p>

    <p>BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.</p>

    <h4><i>Mr. A. Sophte Soper to the Baron de Book-Worms.</i></h4>

    <p>MY DEAR BARON,&mdash;I'm afraid I didn't quite make myself
    understood. I did not ask <i>you</i> to write the article,
    being commissioned by the firm to do it myself. The photographs
    will not be sold apart from the Magazine. Awaiting your
    favourable response,&mdash;</p>

    <p>I am, Sir, Yours,</p>

    <p>A. SOPHTE SOPER.</p>

    <h4><i>From the Baron to A. Sophte Soper.</i></h4>

    <p>DEAR SIR,&mdash;I <i>quite</i> understood. With the generous
    view of doing me a good turn by giving me the almost
    inestimable advantage of advertising myself in Messrs. TOWERS
    &amp; Co.'s widely-circulated Magazine, you propose to
    interview me, and receive from me such orally given information
    as you may require concerning my life, history, work, and
    everything about myself which, in your opinion, would interest
    the readers of this Magazine. I quite appreciate all this. You
    propose to write the article, <i>and I'm to find you the
    materials for it</i>. Good. I don't venture to put any price on
    the admirable work which your talent will produce,&mdash;that's
    for you and your publishers to settle between you, and, as a
    matter of fact, it has been already settled, as you are in
    their employ. But I <i>can</i> put a price on my own, and I do.
    I collaborate with you in furnishing all the materials of which
    you are in need. <i>Soit.</i> For the use of my Pegasus, no
    matter what its breed, and, as it isn't a gift-horse, but a
    hired one, you can examine its mouth and legs critically
    whenever you are going to mount and guide it at your own sweet
    will, <i>I charge twenty guineas for the first hour</i>, and
    <i>ten for the second</i>. It may be dear, or it may be cheap.
    That's not my affair. <i>C'est &agrave; laisser ou &agrave;
    prendre.</i></p>

    <p>The Magazine in which the article is to appear is not given
    away with a pound of tea, or anything of that sort I presume,
    so that your strictly honourable and business-like firm of
    employers, and you also, Sir, in the regular course of your
    relations with them, intend making something out of me, more or
    less, but something, while I get nothing at all for my time,
    which is decidedly as valuable to me as, I presume, is yours to
    you. What have your publishers ever done for me that I should
    give them my work for nothing? Time is money; why should I make
    Messrs. TOWER, FONDLER &amp; Co. a present of twenty pounds,
    or, for the matter of that, even ten shillings? If I
    misapprehend the situation, and you are doing your work gratis
    and for the love of the thing, then that is <i>your</i> affair,
    not mine: I'm glad to hear it, and regret my inability to join
    you in the luxury of giving away what it is an imperative
    necessity of my existence to sell at the best price I can. Do
    you honestly imagine, Sir, that my literary position will be
    one farthing's-worth improved by a memoir and a portrait of me
    appearing in your widely-circulated journal? If <i>you</i> do,
    <i>I don't</i>; and I prefer to be paid for my work, whether I
    dictate the material to a scribe, who is to serve it up in his
    own fashion, or whether I write it myself. And now I come to
    consider it, I should be inclined to make an additional charge
    for <i>not</i> writing it myself, Not to take you and your
    worthy firm of employers by surprise, I will make out
    beforehand a supposititious bill, and then Messrs. TOWER &amp;
    Co. can close with my offer or not, as they please.</p>

    <table summary="Bill"
           align="center"
           width="80%">
        <tr>
            <td></td>

            <td align="right">&pound;.</td>

            <td align="right"><i>s.</i></td>

            <td align="right"><i>d</i>.</td>
        </tr>

        <tr>
            <td align="left"
                valign="top">To preparing (in special costume) to
                receive Interviewer, for putting aside letters,
                refusing to see tradesmen, &amp;c.</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">3</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">0</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">0</td>
        </tr>

        <tr>
            <td align="left"
                valign="top">To receiving Interviewer,
                Photographer, and Artist, and talking about nothing
                in particular for ten minutes.</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">5</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">0</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">0</td>
        </tr>

        <tr>
            <td align="left"
                valign="top">To cigars and light refreshments all
                round</td>

            <td></td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">10</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">6</td>
        </tr>

        <tr>
            <td align="left"
                valign="top">To giving an account of my life and
                works generally (this being the article
                itself)</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">20</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">0</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">0</td>
        </tr>

        <tr>
            <td align="left"
                valign="top">To showing photographs, books,
                pictures, playbills, and various curios in my
                collection</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">5</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">0</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">0</td>
        </tr>

        <tr>
            <td align="left"
                valign="top">To being photographed in several
                attitudes in the back garden three times, and
                incurring the danger of catching a severe cold</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">3</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">0</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">0</td>
        </tr>

        <tr>
            <td align="left"
                valign="top">(***<i>On the condition that I should
                sign all photos sold inspect books, and receive</i>
                10 <i>per cent. of gross receipts.</i>)</td>
        </tr>

        <tr>
            <td align="left"
                valign="top">To allowing black-and-white Artist to
                make a sketch of my study, also of myself</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">0</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">0</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">0</td>
        </tr>

        <tr>
            <td align="left"
                valign="top">(***<i>On the condition that only this
                one picture is to be done, and that if sold
                separately, I must receive</i> 10 <i>per cent. of
                such sale.</i>)</td>
        </tr>

        <tr>
            <td align="left"
                valign="top">Luncheon, with champagne for the lot,
                at 15<i>s.</i> per head</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">2</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">5</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">0</td>
        </tr>

        <tr>
            <td align="left"
                valign="top">Cigars and liqueurs</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">0</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">10</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">0</td>
        </tr>

        <tr>
            <td align="left"
                valign="top">For time occupied at luncheon in
                giving further details of my life and history</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">10</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">0</td>

            <td align="right"
                valign="bottom">0</td>
        </tr>

        <tr>
            <td align="right">Total</td>

            <td align="right">&pound;49</td>

            <td align="right">5</td>

            <td align="right">6</td>
        </tr>
    </table>

    <p>The refreshments are entirely optional, and therefore can be
    struck out beforehand.</p>

    <p>Pray show the above to the eminent firm which has the
    advantage of your zealous services, and believe me to
    remain</p>

    <p>Your most sincerely obliged</p>

    <p>BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.</p>

    <p>To the above a reply may be expected, and, if received, it
    will probably be in a different tone from Mr. SOPHTE SOPER's
    previous communications. No matter. There's an end of it. The
    Baron's advice to all "Celebrities," when asked to permit
    themselves to be interviewed, is, in the language of the
    poet,&mdash;</p>

    <div class="poem">
        <div class="stanza">
            <p>"Charge, Chester, charge!"</p>
        </div>
    </div>

    <p>then they will have benefited other Celebrities all round,
    and the result will be that either only those authors will be
    interviewed who are worth the price of interviewing, or the
    professional biographical compilers will have to hunt up
    nobodies, dress up jays as peacocks, and so bring the
    legitimate business of "Interviewing" into well-deserved
    contempt.</p>
    <hr />

    <p><i>Two Men in a Boat</i>. By Messrs. DILLON and
    O'BRIEN.</p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page202"
       id="page202"></a>[pg 202]</span> 
    <hr />

    <div class="figcenter"
         style="width:100%;">
        <a href="images/202.png"><img width="100%"
             src="images/202.png"
             alt="" /></a>

        <h3>THE GRAND OLD CAMPAIGNER IN SCOTLAND.</h3>
    </div>
    <hr />
    <span class="pagenum"><a name="page203"
       id="page203"></a>[pg 203]</span> 

    <div class="figcenter"
         style="width:100%;">
        <h3>PROPOSED RAISING OF PICCADILLY.</h3>"Let the road be
        raised, &amp;c.... Only one house in Piccadilly at present
        standing would suffer.... And I think the Badminton
        Club."<br />
        <i>Vile Letter to Times, Oct</i>. 11.
        <a href="images/203.png"><img width="100%"
             src="images/203.png"
             alt="" /></a> 

        <table summary="Figure caption"
               width="100%">
            <tr>
                <td align="center"
                    valign="top"
                    width="50%">SUDDEN APPEARANCE OF THE PICCADILLY
                    GOAT TO ELDERLY GENTLEMAN, WHO IS QUIETLY
                    DRESSING IN HIS ROOM ON SECOND FLOOR.</td>

                <td align="center"
                    valign="top"
                    width="50%">A CLUB ALMOST ENTIRELY DISAPPEARS.
                    MEMBERS MAKE THE BEST OF THE SITUATION.</td>
            </tr>
        </table>
    </div>
    <hr />

    <h2>L'ART DE CAUSER.</h2>

    <h4>(<i>With effects up to date.</i>)</h4>

    <blockquote class="note">
        <p>[English ladies, conscious of conversational defects,
        and desirous of shining in Society, may be expected to
        imitate their American Cousins, who, according to <i>The
        Daily News</i>, employ a lady crammer who has made a study
        of the subject she teaches. Before a dinner or luncheon
        party, the crammer spends an hour or two with the pupil,
        and coaches her up in general conversation.]</p>
    </blockquote>

    <div class="poem">
        <div class="stanza">
            <p>It really took us by surprise,</p>

            <p class="i2">We thought her but a mere beginner,</p>

            <p>And widely opened were our eyes</p>

            <p class="i2">To hear her brilliant talk at dinner.</p>

            <p>She always knew just what to say,</p>

            <p class="i2">And said it well, nor for a minute</p>

            <p>Was ever at a loss,&mdash;I may</p>

            <p class="i2">As well confess&mdash;we men weren't in
            it!</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>The talk was of Roumania's Queen,</p>

            <p class="i2">And was she equal, say, to
            DANTE?&mdash;</p>

            <p>The way that race was won by <i>Sheen</i>,</p>

            <p class="i2">And not the horse called
            <i>Alic&aacute;nte</i>&mdash;</p>

            <p>Of how some charities were frauds,</p>

            <p class="i2">How some again were quite
            deserving&mdash;</p>

            <p>The beauties of the Norfolk broads&mdash;</p>

            <p class="i2">The latest hit of Mr. IRVING&mdash;</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>Does sap go up or down the stem?&mdash;</p>

            <p class="i2">The Boom of Mr. RUDYARD
            KIPLING&mdash;</p>

            <p>The speeches of the G.O.M.&mdash;</p>

            <p class="i2">The strength of Mr. MORLEY's
            "stripling"</p>

            <p><i>Was</i> JONAH swallowed by the whale?&mdash;</p>

            <p class="i2">The price of jute&mdash;we wondered all
            if</p>

            <p>They'd have the heart to send to gaol</p>

            <p class="i2">Those heroes, SLAVIN and McAULIFFE.</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>"Oh, maiden fair," I said at last,</p>

            <p class="i2">"To hear you talk is most delightful;</p>

            <p>But yet the time, it's clear, you've passed</p>

            <p class="i2">In reading must be something
            frightful.</p>

            <p>Come&mdash;do you trouble thus your head</p>

            <p class="i2">Because you want to go to College</p>

            <p>By getting out of Mr. STEAD</p>

            <p class="i2">&pound;300 for General Knowledge?"</p>
        </div>

        <div class="stanza">
            <p>"Kind Sir," she promptly then replied,</p>

            <p class="i2">"Your guess, I quite admit, was
            clever,</p>

            <p>And, if I now in you confide,</p>

            <p class="i2">You'll keep it dark, I'm sure, for
            ever.</p>

            <p>Yet do not get, I pray, enraged,</p>

            <p class="i2">For how I got my information</p>

            <p>Was simply this&mdash;<i>I have engaged</i></p>

            <p class="i2"><i>A Coach in General
            Conversation</i>,"</p>
        </div>
    </div>
    <hr />

    <h2>SERVED &Agrave; LA RUSSE.</h2>

    <p>MY DEAR MR. PUNCH,</p>

    <p>Will you allow me, as one who knows Russia by heart, to
    express my intense admiration for the new piece at the
    Shaftesbury Theatre, in which is given, in my opinion, the most
    faithful picture of the CZAR's dominions as yet exhibited to
    the British Public. ACT I. is devoted to "a Street near the
    Banks of the Neva, St. Petersburg," and here we have a splendid
    view of the Winter Palace, and what I took to be the Kremlin at
    Moscow. On one side is the house of a money-lender, and on the
    other the shelter afforded to a drosky-driver and his starving
    family. The author, whose name must be BUCHANANOFF (though he
    modestly drops the ultimate syllable), gives as a second title
    to this portion of his wonderful work, "The Dirge for the
    Dead." It is very appropriate. A student, whose funds are at
    the lowest ebb, commits a purposeless murder, and a "pope" who
    has been on the look-out no doubt for years, seizes the
    opportunity to rush into the murdered man's dwelling, and sing
    over his inanimate body a little thing of his own composition.
    Anyone who has been in Russia will immediately recognise this
    incident as absolutely true to life. Amongst my own
    acquaintance I know three priests who did precisely the same
    thing&mdash;they are called BROWNOFF, JONESKI, and
    ROBINSONOFF.</p>

    <p>Next we have the Palace of the <i>Princess Orenburg</i>, and
    make the acquaintance of <i>Anna Ivanovna</i>, a young lady who
    is the sister of the aimless murderer, and owner of untold
    riches. We are also introduced to the Head of Police, who, as
    everyone knows, is a cross between a suburban inspector, a
    low-class inquiry agent, and a <i>flaneur</i> moving in the
    best Society. We find, too, naturally enough, an English
    <i>attach&eacute;</i>, whose chief aim is to insult an aged
    Russian General, whose <i>sobriquet</i> is, "the Hero of
    Sebastopol." Then the aimless murderer reveals his crime,
    which, of course, escapes detection save at the hands of
    <i>Prince Zosimoff</i>, a nobleman, who I fancy, from his name,
    must have discovered a new kind of tooth-powder.</p>

    <p>Next we have the "Interior of a Common Lodging House," the
    counterpart of which may be found in almost any street in the
    modern capital of Russia. There are the religious pictures, the
    cathedral immediately opposite, with its stained-glass windows
    and intermittent organ, and the air of sanctity without which
    no Russian Common Lodging House is complete. Needless to say
    that <i>Prince Tooth-powder</i>&mdash;I beg pardon&mdash;and
    <i>Anna</i> listen while <i>Fedor Ivanovitch</i> again
    confesses his crime, this time to the daughter of the
    drosky-driver, for whom he has a sincere regard, and I may add,
    affection. Although with a well-timed scream his sister might
    interrupt the awkward avowal, she prefers to listen to the
    bitter end. This reminds me of several cases recorded in the
    <i>Newgatekoff Calendaroff</i>, a miscellany of Russian
    crimes.</p>

    <p>After this we come to the Gardens of the Palace Taurida,
    when <i>Fedor</i> is at length arrested and carted off to
    Siberia, an excellent picture of which is given in the last
    Act. Those who <i>really</i> know Russian Society-will not be
    surprised to find that the Chief of the Police (promoted to a
    new position and <span class="pagenum"><a name="page204"
       id="page204"></a>[pg 204]</span> a fur-trimmed coat), and
       the principal characters of the drama have also found their
       way to the Military Outpost on the borders of the dreaded
       region. I say dreaded, but should have added, without cause.
       M. BUCHANANOFF shows us a very pleasant picture. The
       prisoners seem to have very little to do save to preserve
       the life of the Governor, and to talk heroics about liberty
       and other kindred subjects. <i>Prince Zosimoff</i> attempts,
       for the fourth or fifth time, to make <i>Anna</i> his
       own&mdash;he calls the pursuit "a caprice," and it is indeed
       a strange one&mdash;and is, in the nick of time, arrested,
       by order of the CZAR. After this pleasing and natural little
       incident, everyone prepares to go back to St. Petersburg,
       with the solitary exception of the Prince, who is ordered
       off to the Mines. No doubt the Emperor of RUSSIA had used
       the tooth-powder, and, finding it distasteful to him, had
       taken speedy vengeance upon its presumed inventor.</p>

    <p>I have but one fault to find with the representation. The
    play is capital, the scenery excellent, and the acting beyond
    all praise. But I am not quite sure about the title. M.
    BUCHANANOFF calls his play "<i>The</i> Sixth
    <i>Commandment</i>"&mdash;he would have been, in my opinion,
    nearer the mark, had he brought it into closer association with
    the Ninth!</p>

    <p>Believe me, dear <i>Mr. Punch</i>,</p>

    <p>Yours, respectfully,</p>

    <p>RUSS IN URBE.</p>
    <hr />

    <h2>IN OUR GARDEN.</h2>

    <div class="figleft"
         style="width:50%;">
        <a href="images/204.png"><img width="100%"
             src="images/204.png"
             alt="" /></a>
    </div>

    <p>"Suppose, TOBY dear boy," said the Member for Sark, "we
    start a garden, and work in it ourselves. TEMPLE did it, you
    know, when he was tired of affairs of State."</p>

    <p>"Sir RICHARD?" I asked, never remembering to have seen the
    Member for Evesham in the company of a rake.</p>

    <p>"No; CHARLES THE SECOND's Minister, who went down to Sheen
    two centuries before the Orleanist Princes, and grew roses. Of
    course I don't mean to be there much in the Session. The thing
    is to have something during Recess to gently engage the mind
    and fully occupy the body."</p>

    <p>This conversation took place towards the end of last Session
    but one. By odd coincidence I had met the Member for Sark as I
    was coming from OLD MORALITY's room, where I had been quietly
    dining with him, JACKSON and AKERS-DOUGLAS made up party of
    four. It was second week of August; everybody tired to death.
    OLD MORALITY asked me to look in and join them about eight
    o'clock. Knocked at door; no answer; curious scurrying going
    round; somebody running and jumping; heard OLD MORALITY's
    voice, in gleeful notes, "Now then, DOUGLAS, tuck in your
    tuppenny! Here you are, JACKSON! keep the mill a goin'!"
    Knocked again; no answer; opened door gently; beheld strange
    sight. The Patronage Secretary was "giving a back" to the FIRST
    LORD of the TREASURY. OLD MORALITY, taking running jump,
    cleared it with surprising agility considering AKERS-DOUGLAS'S
    inches. Then he trotted on a few paces, folded his arms and
    bent his head; Financial Secretary to Treasury, clearing
    AKERS-DOUGLAS, took OLD MORALITY in his stride, and "tucked in
    his tuppenny" in turn.</p>

    <p>Thought I had better retire. Seemed on the whole the
    proceedings demanded privacy; but OLD MORALITY, catching sight
    of me, called out, "Come along, TOBY! Only our little game.
    Fall in, and take your turn."</p>

    <p>Rather afraid of falling over, but didn't like to spoil
    sport; cleared OLD MORALITY capitally; scrambled over
    AKERS-DOUGLAS; but couldn't manage JACKSON.</p>

    <p>"I can't get over him," I said, apologetically.</p>

    <p>"No," said AKERS-DOUGLAS, "he's a Yorkshireman."</p>

    <p>"'Tis but a primitive pastime," observed OLD MORALITY, when,
    later, we sat down to dinner; "but remarkably refreshing; a
    great stimulant for the appetite. Indeed," he added, as he
    transferred a whole grouse to his plate, "I do not know
    anything that more forcibly brings home to the mind the truth
    underlying the old Greek aphorism, that a bird on your plate is
    worth two in the dish."</p>

    <p>I gathered in conversation that when business gets a little
    heavy, when time presses, and leisure for exercise is
    curtailed, OLD MORALITY generally has ten minutes leap-frog
    before dinner.</p>

    <p>"We used at first to play it in the corridor; an excellent
    place; apparently especially designed for the purpose; but we
    were always liable to interruption, and by putting the chairs
    on the table here we manage well enough. It's been the making
    of me, and I may add, has enabled my Right Hon. friends with
    increased vigour and ease to perform their duty to their QUEEN
    and Country. The great thing, dear TOBY, is to judiciously
    commingle physical exercise with mental activity. What says the
    great bard of Abydos? <i>Mens sana in corpore sano</i>, which
    being translated means, mens&mdash;or perhaps I should say,
    men&mdash;should incorporate bodily exercise with mental
    exercitation."</p>

    <p>Of course I did not disclose to the Member for Sark, what
    had taken place in the privity of OLD MORALITY's room. That is
    not my way. The secret is ever sacred with me, and shall be
    carried with me to the silent tomb. But I was much impressed
    with the practical suggestions of my esteemed Leader, and
    allured by their evident effect upon his appetite.</p>

    <p>"Men," continued the Member for Sark, moodily, "do all kinds
    of things in the Recess to make up for the inroads on the
    constitution suffered during the Session. They go to La
    Bourboule like the MARKISS and RAIKES; or they play Golf like
    Prince ARTHUR; or they pay visits to their Mothers-in-law in
    the United States, like CHAMBERLAIN and LYON PLAYFAIR; or they
    go to Switzerland, India, Russia, Australia, and Sierra Leone.
    Now if we had a garden, which we dug, and weeded, and clipped,
    and pruned ourselves, never eating a potato the sapling of
    which we had not planted, watered, and if necessary grafted,
    with our own hands, we should live happy, healthful lives for
    at least a month or two, coming back to our work having renewed
    our youth like the rhinoceros."</p>

    <p>"But you don't know anything about gardening, do you?"</p>

    <p>"That's just it. Anyone can keep a garden that has been
    brought up to the business. But look what chances there are
    before two statesmen of, I trust I may say without egotism,
    average intelligence, who take to gardening without, as you may
    say, knowing anything about it. Think of the charm of being
    able to call a spade a Hoe! without your companion, however
    contentious, capping the exclamation. Then think of the long
    vista of possible surprises. You dig a trench, and I gently
    sprinkle seed in it&mdash;"</p>

    <p>"Excuse me," I said, "but supposing <i>I</i> sprinkle the
    seed, and <i>you</i> dig the trench?"</p>

    <p>"&mdash;The seed is carrot, let us suppose," the Member for
    Sark continued, disregarding my interruption, his fine face
    aglow with honest enthusiasm. "I, not being an adept, feeling
    my way, as it were, towards the perfection of knowledge, put in
    the seed the wrong end up, and, instead of the carrots
    presenting themselves to the earnest inquirer in what is, I
    believe, the ordinary fashion, with the green tops showing
    above the generous earth, and the spiral, rosy-tinted,
    cylindrical form hidden in the soil, the limb were to grow out
    of the ground, its head downward; would that be nothing, do you
    think? I mention that only as a possibility that flashed across
    my mind. There are an illimitable series of possibilities that
    might grow out of Our Garden. Of course we don't mean to make
    money out of it. It's only fair to you, TOBY, that I should, at
    the outset, beg you to hustle out of your mind any sordid ideas
    of that kind. What we seek is, health and honest occupation,
    and here they lie open to our hand."</p>

    <p>This conversation, as I mentioned, took place a little more
    than a year ago. I was carried away, as the House of Commons
    never is, by my Hon. friend's eloquence. We got the garden. We
    have it now; but I do not trust myself on this page to dwell on
    the subject.</p>
    <hr />

    <p>FEMININE AND A N-UTAH GENDER.&mdash;Plurality of wives is
    abolished in Utah. The husbands seem to have made no difficulty
    about it, but what have the wives said?</p>
    <hr />

    <p>"QUEEN'S WEATHER."&mdash;The weather is looking up. It was
    mentioned in the <i>Court Circular</i> last Wednesday week for
    the first time.</p>
    <hr />

    <p>NOTICE.&mdash;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" />

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12468 ***</div>
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