The Project Gutenberg eBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 104, January 14, 1893

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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 104, January 14, 1893

Author: Various

Release date: May 24, 2007 [eBook #21598]
Most recently updated: January 2, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Juliet
Sutherland and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI, VOLUME 104, JANUARY 14, 1893 ***

PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 104.

JANUARY 14th, 1893.

THE SCHOOL FOR PATRIOTISM.

[A Fund has been raised to supply the School Board with Union-Jacks, with a view to increasing the loyalty of the pupils.—Daily Paper.]

Scene—A Room of the School Board, decorated with flags and trophies of arms. Teacher discovered instructing his pupils in English History.

Teacher. And now we come to the Battle of Trafalgar, which was won by Nelson in the early part of the present century. As it is my object to increase your patriotism, I may tell you that "Britannia rules the waves, and Britons never, never, never will be slaves!" Repeat that in chorus.

Pupils. "Rule, Britannia, Britannia rules the waves; Britons never, never, never will be slaves!"

Teacher. Thank you very much; and to show how the esprit de corps in Her Majesty's Ships-of-War is preserved, I will now dance the Sailor's Hornpipe.

[Does so.

First Pupil. Please, Sir, do Englishmen always win?

Teacher. Invariably. If they retire, they do not retreat. Can you tell me what a retirement of troops in the face of the enemy is called?

Second Pupil. Bolting, Sir.

Teacher. Nothing of the sort. Go to the bottom of the class, Sirrah! Bolting, indeed! Next boy!

Third Pupil. It is called "a strategic movement to the rear," Sir.

Teacher. Quite right; and now we come to the Battle of Waterloo, which you will remember was won on the 18th of June, 1815. But perhaps this may be a convenient time for the introduction of the Union-Jack War Dance, which, as you all know, has been recently ordered to be part of our studies by the Committee of the School Board. Now then, please, take your places.

[The Pupils seize the flags hanging to the walls, and dance merrily. At the conclusion of the exercise they replace the flags, and resume their customary places.

First Pupil. If you please, can you tell us anything about the Union-Jack?

Teacher. As I have explained on many occasions, when you have been good and obliging enough to put the same question to me, I am delighted to have the opportunity. You must know that the Union-Jack represents the greatest nation in the world. This nation is our own beloved country, and it is gratifying to know that there are no people so blessed as our own. The Union-Jack flies in every quarter of the globe, and where it is seen, slavery becomes impossible, and tyranny a thing of the past. To be an Englishman is to be the noblest creature on the earth. One Englishman is worth twenty specimens of other nationalities; he is more conscientious, more clever, more beautiful than any other living man, and it is a good thing for the world that he exists. (Looking at watch.) And now, as we have rather exceeded our usual time for study, we will depart after the customary ceremony.

[The Pupils then sing the National Anthem, and the School dismisses itself with three cheers for Her Majesty. Curtain.

"ON NE 'PATINE' PAS AVEC L'AMOUR."

(With Apologies to the Shade of Alfred de Musset.)

BUTTERS BUTTERED.

Sir,—I have been deeply thrilled by the suggestion for curing the Agricultural depression which Messrs. Macdougall, of Mark Lane, have made. I am not myself an Agriculturist; still, in—or rather near—the suburban villa in which I reside, I have an old cow, and a donkey on which my children ride. Directly I heard that the way to keep animals warm and comfortable in Winter was to smear them all over with oil, thus saving much of the cost of feeding them, I tried the plan on the aged cow. Perhaps the oil I used was not sufficiently pure. At all events the animal, which had never been known before to do more than proceed at a leisurely walk, rushed at frantic speed into the garden, and tossed my wife's mother into a cucumber-frame. She has now gone home. Undeterred by the comparative failure of this attempt, I smeared our donkey with a pint of the best castor-oil, just before setting out on its daily amble, with the children (in panniers) on its back. It did not appear to relish the treatment, as it instantly broke loose, and was found, five miles off, in a village pound, while the children were landed in a neighbouring ditch. I am writing to Messrs. Macdougall, to ask for particulars of how the oil is to be applied. I am sure it is an excellent idea, if the animals could be brought to see it in the same light.

Yours, experimentally,

Darwin Edison Gubbins.

My Dear Mr. Punch,—Smith Minor, who is staying at our house for part of the holidays, said what good fun it would be to try the Macdougall plan on my Uncle from India. He is always cold and shivering. We waited till he was having a nap after dinner in the arm-chair, and we coated him over with butter that Smith Minor got from Cook. (Cook never will give me butter.) When we got to his hair he unfortunately woke up, so that is probably why the plan did not succeed. We thought he would be pleased to feel warmer, but he wasn't. Uncles are often ungrateful, Smith Minor says. And it did succeed in one way, because he seemed awfully hot and red in the face when he found what we had been doing. Perhaps we ought not to have tried smearing him on his clothes, but how could we get his clothes off without waking him? Smith Minor says it's a pity we didn't drug him. N.B.—I have been stopped going to the Pantomime for this, and Smith Minor is to be sent home!

Your dejected

Tommy.

Sir,—I want to bring an action against Messrs. Macdougall, of Mark Lane. I tried their smearing plan on a horse in my stable that had a huge appetite, and was always getting cold if left out in the wet. I used paraffin, and at first the animal seemed really grateful. In the night I was called up by a fearful noise, and found that the horse's appetite had not got at all less owing to the oil; on the contrary, it seemed to have eaten up most of the woodwork of the stable, and was plunging about madly. The paraffin caught light, and the stable was burned, and the horse too. In future I shall feed my horse in the usual way, not on the outside.

Yours,

Titus Oats.

THE THIN BROWN LINE.

["Decidedly the most gratifying feature in the accounts of these engagements which have reached us, is the proof which they contain of the remarkable progress in all soldierly qualities made by the fellaheen forces, under the guidance and instruction of their British Officers."—The Times.]

Tommy Atkins, loquitur:—

"We've fought with many men acrost the seas,

And some of 'em was brave, an' some was not."

(So Mister Kipling says. His 'ealth, boys, please!

'E doesn't give us Tommies Tommy-rot.)

We didn't think you over-full of pluck,

When you scuttled from our baynicks like wild 'orses;

But you're mendin', an' 'ere's wishing of you luck!

Wich you're proving an addition to our forces.

So 'ere's to you, though 'tis true that at El Teb you cut and ran;

You're improvin' from a scuttler to a first-class fighting man;

You can 'old your own at present when the bullets hiss and buzz,

And in time you may be equal to a round with Fuzzy-Wuz!

You've been lammed and licked sheer out of go an' grit,

From the times of Pharaoh down to the Khe-dive;

Till you 'ardly feel yerself one bloomin' bit,

And I almost wonder you are left alive.

But we've got you out of a good deal of that,

Sir Evelyn and the rest of us. You foller;

And you'll fight yer weight in (Soudanese) wild cat

One day, nor let the Fuzzies knock you oller.

Then 'ere's to you, my fine Fellah, and the missis and the kid!

When you stand a Dervish devil-rush, and do as you are bid,

You'll just make a Tommy Atkins of a quiet Coptic sort;

And I shouldn't wonder then, mate, if the Fuzzies see some sport.

Some would like us lads to clear out! Wot say you?

We don't tumble to the Parties and their fakes;

But I guess we don't mean scuttle. If we do,

We shall make the bloomingest o' black mistakes;

With the 'owling Dervishes you've stood a brush,

With a baynick you can cross a shovel-spear;

But leave yer to the French, and Fuzzy's rush?

That won't be a 'ealthy game for many a year.

So 'ere's to you, my fine Fellah! May you cut and run no more,

Though the 'acking, 'owling, 'ayrick-'eaded niggers rush and roar,

We back you, 'elp you, train you, and to make the bargain fair,

We won't leave you—yet—to Fuz-Wuz—him as broke a British Square.

You ain't no "thin red" 'eroes, no, not yet,

But a patient, docile, plucky, "thin brown line."

May be useful in its way, my boy, you bet!

All good fighters may shake fists, you know—'ere's mine!

You're a daisy, you're a dasher, you're a dab!

I'll fight with you, or join you on a spree

Let the skulkers and the scuttlers stow their gab,

Tommy Atkins drinks your 'ealth with three times three!

So 'ere's to you, my fine Fellah! 'E who funked the 'ot Soudan,

And the furious Fuzzy-Wuzzies, grows a first-class fighting-man:

An' 'ere's to you, my fine Fellah, coffee 'ide and inky hair

May yet shoulder stand to shoulder with me in a British Square!

REFLECTION BY A READER OF "REMINISCENCES."

Yes, life is hard. Our fellows judge us coldly;

We mostly dwell in fog, and dance in fetters;

But sweeter far to face oblivion boldly,

Than front posterity through a Life and Letters.

That Memory's the Mother of the Muses,

We're told. Alas! it must have been the Furies!

Mnemosyne her privilege abuses,—

Nothing from her distorting glass secure is.

Life is a Sphinx: folk cannot solve her riddles,

So they've recourse to spiteful taradiddles,

Which they dub "Reminiscences." Kind fate,

From, the fool's Memory preserve the Great!

"How London Theatres are Warmed."—By having first-rate pieces. This prevents any chance of a "frost."

Song for the Liberator Society, and Others.—"Oh, where, and oh where, is our J. S. B-lf-r gone?"

When the P. M. Gazette by a Tory was book'd,

The Editor "Cust," and its readers were Cooke'd.

SURGIT AMARI ALIQUID
"SURGIT AMARI ALIQUID——"

"And whom did you take into Supper, Mike?" "Maud Willoughby."

"You lucky Boy! Why she's a Darling!"

"Yes—but there was another Fellow on her other Side!"

ON AN OLD QUARTETTE.

[Pantaloon, Clown, Harlequin, and Columbine are the characters of an old sixteenth-century drama, acted in dumb-show. "Pantaleone" is a Venetian type; Columbine means a "little dove."]

While Fairyland and Fairy tales

'Neath flaunting pageants fall,

And over Pantomime prevails

The Muse of Music Hall.

Still echoes, wafted through the din,

A lilt of one old tune—

Of Columbine and Harlequin,

Of Clown and Pantaloon.

Their faded frolics, tarnished show

Are shadows faint and rude

Of mimes who centuries ago

Joked, caramboled and wooed,

Of masques Venetian, Florentine,

Of moyen-age renown—

Of Harlequin and Columbine,

Of Pantaloon and Clown.

Not horseplay rough, the Saraband

They danced in vanished years,

But Love and Satire hand-in-hand,

And laughter linked with tears,

And Youth equipped his dove to win,

And Age, who grudged the boon;—

Sweet Columbine, bold Harlequin,

Cross Clown and Pantaloon.

Our Children-Critics now who deign

To greet this honoured jest,

Acclaiming, "Here we are again!"

With patronising zest,

They mark no soft Italian moon

Which once was wont to shine

On Harlequin and Pantaloon,

And Clown and Columbine!

But, spangled pair of lovers true,

And, whitened schemers twain,

The scholar hears in each of you

A note of that quatrain;

The dim Renaissance seems to spin

Around your satin shoon,

Fair Columbine, feat Harlequin,

Sly Clown and Pantaloon!

Everyone sincerely hopes that Sir West Ridgway will make a good bag during his visit to the Moors. "Ridgway's Food" is something that can be swallowed easily, and is so palatable as to be quite a More-ish sort of dish. Good luck to the experienced and widely-travelled Sir East-and-West Ridgway. Our English Rosebery couldn't have made a better choice.

To a Brewer (by Our Christmas Clown).—"Wish you a Hoppy New Year!"

THE MAN WHO WOULD.

VI.—THE MAN WHO WOULD BE A SOUL.

Lincoln B. Swezey was a high-toned and inquiring American citizen, who came over to study our Institootions. He carried letters to almost everybody; Dukes, Radicals, Authors, eminent British Prize-fighters, Music-hall buffoons, and he prosecuted his examination steadily. He did not say much, and he never was seen to laugh, but he kept a note-book, and he seemed to contemplate in his own mind, The Ideal American, and to try to live up to that standard. When he did speak, it was in the interrogative, and he pastured his intellect on our high-class Magazines.

Lincoln B. discovered many things, and noted them down for his work on Social Dry Rot in Europe, but one matter puzzled him. He read in papers or reviews, and he vaguely heard talk of a secret institution, the Society of Souls. They were going to run a newspaper; they were not going to run a newspaper. There was a poem in connection with them, which mystified Lincoln B. Swezey not a little; he "allowed it was darned personal," but further than that his light did not penetrate. He went to a little Club, of which he was a temporary member; it was not fashionable, and did not seem to want to be, and Swezey thought it flippant. There he asked, "What are the Souls, anyhow?" "Societas omnium animarum," somebody answered, and Swezey exclaimed "Say!" "They are a congregation of ladies. Their statutes decree that they are to be bene natæ, bene vestitæ, and mediocriter,—I don't remember what."

Swezey perceived that he was being trifled with, and turned the conversation to the superior culture and scholarship of American politicians, with some thoughts on canvas-backed ducks.

He next applied to a lady, whom he regarded as at once fashionable and well-informed, and asked her, "Who the Souls were, anyhow?"

"Oh, a horrid, stuck-up set of people," said this Pythoness. "They have passwords, and wear a silver gridiron."

"Why on earth do they do that?" asked Swezey.

"No doubt for some improper, or blasphemous reason. Don't be a Soul—you had better be a Skate. I am a Skate. We wear a silver skate, don't you see" (and she showed him a model of an Acme Skate in silver), "with the motto, Celer et Audax—'Fast and Forward.'"

Swezey expressed his pride at being admitted to these mysteries—but still pursued his inquiries.

"What do the Souls do?"

"All sorts of horrid things. They have a rule that no Soul is ever to speak to anybody who is not a Soul, in society, you know. And they have a rule that no Soul is ever to marry a Soul."

"Exogamy!" said Swezey, and began to puzzle out the probable results and causes of this curious prohibition.

"I don't know what you mean," said the lady, "and I don't know why you are so curious about them. They all read the same books at the same time, and they sacrifice wild asses at the altar of the Hyperborean Apollo, Ibsen, you know."

These particulars were calculated to excite Swezey in the highest degree. He wrote a letter on the subject to the Chanticleer, a newspaper in Troy, Ill., of which he was a correspondent, and it was copied, with zinco-type illustrations, into all the journals of the habitable globe, and came back to England like the fabled boomerang. Meanwhile Swezey was cruising about, in town and country, looking out for persons wearing silver gridirons. He never found any, and the more he inquired, the more puzzled he became. He was informed that a treatise on the subject existed, but neither at the British Museum, nor at any of the newspaper offices, could he obtain an example of this rare work, which people asserted that they had seen and read.

Finally Swezey made the acquaintance of a lady who was rumoured darkly to be learned in the matter. To her he poured forth expressions of his consuming desire to be initiated, and to sacrifice at the shrine.

"There is not any shrine," said his acquaintance.

Then what in the universe is it all about?
"Then what in the universe is it all about?"

"Well, I guess I want bad to be a Soul—an honorary one, of course—a temporary member."

"There are conditions," said the Priestess.

"If there's a subscription"——Swezey began.

"There is not any subscription."

"If there's an oath"——

"There is not any oath."

"Well what are the conditions, anyhow?"

"Are you extremely beautiful?"

Among the faults of Swezey, personal vanity was not reckoned. He shook his head sadly, at the same time intimating that he guessed no one would turn round in Broadway to look at the prettiest Englishwoman alive.

Afterwards, he reflected that this was hardly the right thing to have said.

"Are you extremely diverting?"

Swezey admitted that gaiety was not his forte. Still, he pined for information.

"What does the Society do?" he asked.

"There is not any Society."

"Then why do they call themselves Souls?"

"But they don't call themselves anything whatever."

"Then why are they called Souls?"

"Because they——but no! That is the Mystery which cannot be divulged to the profane."

"Then what in the universe is it all about?" asked Swezey; but this was a problem to which no answer was vouchsafed.

Swezey is still going around, and still asking questions. But he has moments of despondency, in which he is inclined to allow that the poor islanders possess, after all, something akin to that boasted inheritance of his native land, the Great American Joke. "Guess they've played it on me," is the burden of his most secret meditations.

THE INFANT'S GUIDE TO KNOWLEDGE.

(Revised to date by Mr. Punch.)

Question. What is an Infant?

Answer. A guileless child who has not yet reached twenty-one years of age.

Q. What is a year?

A. An unknown quantity to a lady after forty. And this reply is distinctly smart.

Q. What is "smartness"?

A. The art of appearing to belong to a good set.

Q. What is a good set?—A. A clique that prefers modes to morality, chic to comfort, and frivolity to family ties.

Q. What is chic?—A. An indefinable something, implying "go," "fast and loose style," "slap-dash."

Q. What is a dinner-party?

A. A large subject, that cannot be disposed of in a paragraph.

Q. What is a subject?—A. Something distinct from Royalty.

Q. Can one be distinct after dinner?—A. Yes,—with difficulty.

Q. What is a difficulty?

A. When of a pecuniary character—the time following the using up of the pecuniary resources of your friends.

Q. What is a friend?

A. A man who dines with you—a past enemy or a future foe.

Q. What is bad champagne?—A. A fruity effervescing beverage costing about thirty shillings the dozen.

Q. What is good?—A. Cannot reply until I have received samples.

Q. How can an inexperienced diner discover that he has taken bad champagne?

A. By the condition of his head on the following morning.

Q. What is a head?—A. A necessary alternative to money.

Q. What is money?

A. The only satisfactory representative of credit.

Q. What are representatives?

A. The mouthpieces of voters mustered in the House of Commons.

Q. What is mustard?

A. The chief ingredient of breakfast, after a night of it with your friends, when your appetite requires coaxing.

Q. What is the future?—A. To-morrow, and the coming centuries.

Q. And the past?—A. Two minutes ago, and all that went before.

Q. And the present?—A. The right time for bringing the current instalment of the Infant's Guide to a prompt conclusion.

"ENCORE, ALADDIN!"

Notes for the Storey of Aladdin, supplied by M.Jacobi.
Notes for the Storey of Aladdin, supplied by M. Jacobi.

Marie-Aladdin.
Marie-Aladdin and the Electric Light Pollini.

Aladdin at the Alhambra is a genuine "Ballet Extravaganza," the story being told in pantomimic action, illustrated by M. Jacobi's sympathetic music. Aladdin was an excellent subject for Mr. John Hollingshead to take, though I venture to think that our old friend Blue Beard would be a still better one. The only fault I find with Aladdin is that it is too soon over. It certainly will take rank among the most superb and the most dramatic spectacles ever placed on the Alhambra stage. Aladdin ought to have been made much more of, as a sort of L'Enfant Prodigue. What a chance there would have been for him in games with the street-boys! Mlle. Legnani—so called, of course, from the graceful facility with which she remains for several seconds at a time on one leg—is both a pretty and nimble representative of the Dancing Princess. The Slave of the Ring does not appear in this story, as far as I could gather, only the Spirit of the Lamp, Signorina Pollini, puts in an appearance, and a very splendid appearance it is too! Mr. John Hollingshead is to be congratulated on having struck out a new line—though how he or the Lord Chamberlain could "strike out a new line" where there is no dialogue, will ever remain a mystery, even to M. Jacobi who knows most things well, and music better than anything. Mlle. Marie is a sprightly Aladdin, her pantomimic action being remarkably good. How many Aladdins have I seen! Whatever may become of other fairy tales—though all the best fairy tales are immortal—this of Aladdin will serve the stage for ever. At least, so thinks Private Box.

CHEAP LAW IN THE CITY.

Probable Development of the new "London Chamber of Arbitration," for the economical Settlement of Disputes without recourse to Litigation.

Basqueing in a New Language.—Much interest has been excited by the report that Mr. Gladstone, during his stay at Biarritz, used up his spare moments by studying the Basque tongue. Autolycus hears that, contrary to his usual habit, the Right Hon. Gentleman has in this matter an ulterior purpose. Occasionally, in the heat of debate in the House of Commons, Mr. Abraham drops into his native tongue, and addresses the Speaker in Welsh. Mr. Gladstone, desiring to add a fresh interest to Parliamentary proceedings, will, in such circumstances, immediately follow the Hon. Member for the Rhondda Vally, and continue the debate in Basque.

Evident, "When you come to think of it."—At what most patriotic moment of a most patriotic French exile must his feelings be most bitter?—When his love turns to Gaul.

"TO BE CONTINUED."

A Tale Continued in our Next.
A Tale Continued in our Next.

How eagerly those tales I read

While still of tender years,

Of murder strange, of Haunted Grange,

And gory Buccaneers!

But, at the most exciting point,

Abruptly ceased the text,—

What rage was mine to meet the line,

"Continued in our next"!

Sometimes, indeed, misfortune sharp

The Journal would attend—

The funds would fail, and so the tale

Remains without an end.

Now, when I take a serial up,

I cry, in accents vexed,—

"I've read enough—why is the stuff

'Continued in our next'?"

Ah well, the things we valued once

Enliven us no more!

(Remarks like these, if morals please,

I've furnished by the score.)

And should these verses but result

In making you perplexed,

You'll learn with glee they will not be

"Continued in our next"!

"Oh, these Christmas Bills!" cried Paterfamilias. "That's what I do," rejoined Impey Qunious. "My sentiments and practice precisely—'Owe these Christmas Bills'—and many others."

BUILDING THE SNOW MAN.

Billy and Johnnie were two little boys,

Who wearied of lessons, and tired of their toys.

Says Billy, "I've hit on an excellent plan;

Let's go out in the cold, John, and build a Snow Man!"

Johnnie (blowing his fingers). Oh, I say, Billy, isn't it cold, either?

Billy (stamping). Is it, Johnnie? I haven't noticed it myself.

Johnnie. Oh, you're as hard as nails, you are. My fingers are quite numb.

Billy. Then work away briskly. That'll warm 'em! Snow's a bit less binding than I expected to find it. Result of the severe frost, I suppose. But peg away, and we shall podge it into shape yet, Johnnie.

Johnnie. Ye-e-e-s! (Shivers). But what—er—er—what pattern, or plan, or model, have we—that—is—er—have you—er—decided on, Billy?

Billy (winking). Well, that's as it happens, Johnnie! Remember the one we built in '86—eh?

Johnnie (shuddering). I should think I did. Don't mean to say we're to go on those lines again, Billy?

Billy. I mean to say nothing of the kind. Many things have happened since then, Johnnie. For one thing, we've had heaps of advice.

Johnnie. Hang it, yes! And where are the advisers? Standing aloof and criticising our work—in advance. Where's that bold, blusterous, bumptious Behemoth, Bill Stead? Knew all about building Snow Men, he did; had a private monopoly of omniscience in that, as in most other things, Bill had. And now he's licking creation into shape for six-pence a month, and shying stones at us whenever he sees a chance. Little cocksure Labby, too! Oh, he's a nice boy! If Bill takes all Knowledge for his province, Henry considers himself sole proprietor of Truth, and he lets us have Truth—his Truth—every week at least—in hard chunks—that hurt horribly. All in pure friendliness, too, as the Bobby said when he knocked the boy down to save him from being run over. Gr-r-r-r! Believe he's hiding behind the hedge there, with a pile of hard snowballs to pelt our Man out of shape as soon as we've licked him into it—if ever we do. Teddy Reed, too, he's turned nasty, though he does come from "gallant little Wales;" and now here's Wallace, the Scotch boy—though he was all right anyhow!—cutting up rough at the last moment, and complaining of our Snow Man (which they've all been howling for for six years), because he fancies its head is likely to be a little too Hibernian for his Caledonian taste! Oh, they're a nice loyal, grateful lot, Billy! And where are the Irish bhoys themselves, in whose interests we are freezing our fingers and nipping our noses? Standing off-and-on, as it were, bickering like blazes among themselves, and only uniting to land us a nasty one now and then—just to encourage us!

Billy (patting and punching away vigorously). Loyal? Grateful? Ah, Johnnie, you don't understand 'em as well as I do. Cold has got on your liver. You're a brave boy, Johnnie, but just a bit bilious. Building Snow Men isn't just like arranging bouquets, my boy. Let them bicker, Johnnie, and listen to what they say! It may all come in handy by-and-by. We've had gratuitous advice and volunteer plans all round, from Arty Balfour and Joey Chamberlain, as well as Henry, and Teddy, and Tim and John E., and the rest of 'em. Let them talk whilst we build, Johnnie. 'Tis a cold, uncomfortable job, I admit; and whether "friendly" advice or hostile ammunition will do us the most damage I hardly know—yet. Fierce foes are sometimes easier to deal with than friendly funkers. A "Thunderer" in open opposition affrights a true Titan less than a treacherous Thersites in one's own camp. But, Johnnie, we've got to build up this Snow Man somehow, and on some plan! I only hope (entre nous, Johnnie) that a thaw won't set in, and melt it out of form and feature before it is fairly finished!

[Left hard at it.

A DISTINCTION AND A DIFFERENCE.

Mr. Wilkins. "Beg pardon, Sir Pompey, but could you tell me who that Young Gen'l'man is you just took off yer 'At to?"

Sir Pompey (pompously). "He's not a Gentleman at all, Wilkins. He's a Noble Lord—the Right Honourable Lord Viscount Speedicutts—a Friend of mine."

Mr. Wilkins. "Indeed, Sir Pompey! But, I s'pose some of 'em's Gen'l'men, sometimes?"

Great consternation at hearing of the arrest of "M. Blondin" in connection with the Panama scandals. Of course there can be only one Blondin, and some wiseacres at once applied the proverb about "Give him enough rope," &c. But Blondin never fell. It was quite another Blondin. The Hero of Niagara was not the Villain of the Panama piece—if villain he turn out to be. Blondin is still performing; always walking soberly, though elevated, on the rope that is quite tight. Maybe the rope gets tighter than ever at this jovial period, but Blondin, the Blondin, our Blondin's acts are in the sight of everybody, his proceedings are intelligible to all, though far above the heads of the people.

Still, whatever financial accident may have happened to M. Blondin, he has always kept his balance—on the rope.

[Blank page]

THE SNOW MAN.

TO CHLORINDA.

(With a Fan.)

All in your glory you to-night

Will dance, and me they don't invite

Your charms to scan;

And, as a seal might send its skin

To please the girl it may not win,

I send a fan.

Behind this fan some other man

Your hand will hold;

Your fearless eyes, so bright and brown,

Will hide their gladness, glancing down,

No longer cold.

And your pale, perfect cheek will take

That colour for another's sake,

I ne'er controlled,—

Yet, ere you sleep, stray thoughts will creep

To days of old.

Of old! For in a single day,

When love first gilds a maiden's way,

The world grows new;

And from that new world you will send

Sweet pity to the absent friend

Who so loved you.

Loved—for my love will wither then;

I cannot share with other men

The dear delight

That dwells in your austerest tone,

That latent hope of joys unknown—

Though now you will not be my own,

Some day you might.

My trusted little friend of yore,

Of course you'd think my love a bore,

It's not romantic:

I've passed beyond the football stage,

And e'en despair is saved by age

From growing frantic.

No, like a veteran grim and grey,

With sling and crutch,

I am but fit to watch the fray

Where, in the world-old, witching way,

In other hands your fingers stay

With lingering touch,

That may mean nothing, or it may

Mean, oh! so much.

I'll wed some woman, prim of face,

Who'll duly fill the housewife's place,

And with her hard, domestic grace

Illusions scatter;

But sometimes when the stars are full,

While at my season'd pipe I pull,

I'll see my little love once more,

With brilliant lovers by the score,

Whose tributes flatter.

And, thinking of the light gone by,

Murmur with philosophic sigh,

"It doesn't matter."

And then, perchance, this fan you'll find,

When all the new romance is over.

Sweet, may you ne'er with troubled mind

Half wish you never had resigned,

Your truest lover.

Last week, Dr. Adler gave, as appears by the extracts, an excellent Lecture on "Jewish Wit and Humour." He himself is well known as the The Jew d'Esprit.

Temporary Change of Name.—Will Poplar Hospital be styled, "Un-pop'lar Hospital?"

"THE VERY LATEST."

["A Cookery Autograph-book is the last idea. Each friend is supposed to write a practical recipe for a dainty dish above his or her signature."

The Graphic.]

No, Mabel, no;—though your behest

I always heed with rapt attention,

Most fervently I must protest

Against this horrible invention;

Your word has hitherto been law,

But this appears the final straw!

Obedient to imperious looks,

I've had to write, at your suggestion,

The answers in confession-books

To many an idiotic question;

I'll vow my favourite tint is blue

(The colour mostly worn by you);

I'll gladly draw a fancy sketch,

I'll make acrostics with elation,

I'll write you verses at a stretch,

Or give my views on vaccination;

But, even to fulfil your wishes,

I cannot manufacture dishes!

I know, in theory, how to make

The matutinal tea and coffee,

And, when at school, I used to bake

A gruesome mess described as toffee;

But these, which form my whole cuisine,

Are scarce the kind of thing you mean.

Of course I'd learn some more by heart,

If this could gain me your affection,

But fear the anguish on your part

Produced by faulty recollection;

On me, my Mabel, please to look

As lover only—not as Cook!

CRINOLINE.

Rumour whispers, so we glean

From the papers, there have been

Thoughts of bringing on the scene

This mad, monstrous, metal screen,

Hiding woman's graceful mien.

Better Jewish gabardine

Than, thus swelled out, satin's sheen!

Vilest garment ever seen!

Form unknown in things terrene;

Even monsters pliocene

Were not so ill-shaped, I ween.

Women wearing this machine,

Were they fat or were they lean—

Small as Wordsworth's celandine,

Large as sail that's called lateen—

Simply swept the pavement clean:

Hapless man was crushed between

Flat as any tinned sardine.

Thing to rouse a Bishop's spleen,

Make a Canon or a Dean

Speak in language not serene.

We must all be very green,

And our senses not too keen,

If we can't say what we mean,

Write in paper, magazine,

Send petitions to the Queen,

Get the House to intervene.

Paris fashion's transmarine—

Let us stop by quarantine

Catastrophic Crinoline!

"More butter is coming from Victoria," says the P. M. G., "to the Mother Country." Our Colonies are not given to supplying us with this article of food to any great extent. It is generally the Mother Country that has buttered the Colonies.

On Three Poets.

(By the Fourth Party.)

Swinburne, Austin, Morris,

Bardic busybodies,

Threnodies they wrote:—

They were the Three Noddies!

Mrs. R. says that, in this cold weather, whenever she wants to know if there is to be a change, she consults her thawmometer.

The amusing article, "A Man's Thoughts on Marriage," ought not to have appeared in The Gentleman, but in the United Service Magazine. This is evident.

TOO AFFECTIONATE BY HALF.

Auntie. "Oh, you naughty Boy! What are you doing? Smoking! Why you'll never Grow!"

Artful Nephew. "That's just it, Auntie. I don't want to Grow. I want to keep the same Size always, so that I can sit on your Lap, an' Love you!"

CONVERSATIONAL HINTS FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS.

Before I proceed with the order of subjects which I have proposed to myself as the proper one to follow, I feel that I must revert for a moment to the question of "ladies at lunch." You may remember that some two or three weeks ago I ventured to offer some observations on this topic. Dear ladies, you can read for yourselves the winged words in which your adoring Punch settled the matter. "By all means," I said, "come to lunch, if you must." What can be plainer or more direct? Bless your pretty, pouting faces, I am not responsible for the characters of my fellow-men, nor for the harsh language they use. If they behave like boors, and show an incomprehensible distaste for your delightful presence, am I, your constant friend, to be blamed? I cannot alter the nature of these barbarians. But what has happened since I published an article which had, at any rate, the merit of truthful portraiture? Why, I have been overwhelmed with epistolary reproaches in every variety of feminine hand-writing. "A Careful Mother" writes from Dorset—a locality hitherto associated in my mind with butter rather than with blame—to protest that she has been so horrified by my cynical tone, that she does not intend to take me in any longer. She adds, that "Punch has laid upon my drawing-room table for more than thirty years." Heavens, that I should have been so deeply, so ungrammatically, honoured without knowing it! Am I no longer to recline amid photograph albums, gift-books, and flower-vases, upon that sacred table? And are you, Madam, to spite a face which has always, I am certain, beamed upon me with a kindly consideration, by depriving it wantonly of its adorning and necessary nose. Heaven forbid! Withdraw for both our sakes that rash decision, while there is yet time, and restore me to my wonted place in your affections, and your drawing-room.

But all are not like this. Here, for instance, is a sensible and temperate commentary, which it gives me pleasure to quote word for word as it was written:—

Dear Mr. Punch,—I want to tell you that, although I am what one of your friends called "a solid woman," and ought to feel deeply hurt by what you said about ladies at lunch, yet I liked that article the best. I think it was awfully good. But don't you think you are all rather hard on ladies at shooting-boxes? My idea is that there ought to be some new rules about shooting-parties. At present, ladies are asked to amuse the men—at least that is my experience—and it is rather hard they may not sometimes go on the moors, if they want to. But, at the same time, I quite understand that they are horribly in the way, and I am not surprised that the men don't want women about them when they are shooting. But couldn't they arrange to have a day now and then, when they could shoot all the morning, and devote themselves to amusing the women on the moors after lunch? Otherwise, I think there ought to be a rule that no women are to be invited to shooting-boxes. It is generally very dull for the women, and I feel sure the men would be quite as happy without them. I suppose the host might want his wife to be there, to look after things; but she ought to strike, and ask her lady-friends to do the same; and then they could go abroad, or to some jolly place, and enjoy themselves in their own way. Really we often get quite angry—at least I do—when men treat us as if we were so many dolls, and patronise us in their heavy way, and expect us to believe that the world was made entirely for them and their shooting-parties. There must be more give and take. And, if we are to give you our sympathy and attention, you must take our companionship a little oftener. We get so dull when we are all together.

Your sincere admirer,

A Lady Luncher.

I confess this simple letter touched an answering chord in my heart. I scarcely knew how to answer it. At last a brilliant thought struck me. I would show it to my tame Hussar-Captain, Shabrack. That gallant son of Mars is not only a good sportsman, but he has, in common with many of his brother officers, the reputation of being a dashing, but discriminating worshipper at the shrine of beauty. At military and hunt balls the Captain is a stalwart performer, a despiser of mere programme engagements, and an invincible cutter-out of timid youths who venture to put forward their claims to a dance that the Captain has mentally reserved for himself. The mystery is how he has escaped scathless into what his friends now consider to be assured bachelor-hood. Most of his contemporaries, roystering, healthy, and seemingly flinty-hearted fellows, all of them, have long since gone down, one after another, before some soft and smiling little being, and are now trying to fit their incomes to the keep of perambulators, as well as of dog-carts. But Shabrack has escaped. I found him at his Club, and showed him the letter, requesting him at the same time to tell me what he thought of it. I think he was flattered by my appeal, for he insisted on my immediate acceptance of a cigar six inches long, and proposed to me a tempting list of varied drinks. The Captain read the letter through twice carefully, and thus took up his parable:—

"Look here, my son, don't you be put off by what the little woman says. She don't mean half of it. Get the hostess to strike!"—here he laughed loudly—"now that's a real good 'un. Why, they haven't got it in them. Fact is, they can't stand one another's company. She says as much, don't she? 'We get so dull when we are all together.' Well, that scarcely looks like goin' off on the strike together, does it? Don't you be alarmed, old quill-driver, they'll never run a strike of that kind for more than a day. They'll all come troopin' back, beggin' to be forgiven, and all that, and, by gum, we shall have to take 'em back too, just as we're all congratulatin' ourselves that we shan't have to go to any more blessed pic-nics. That's a woman's idea of enjoyin' herself in the country—nothin' but one round of pic-nics. I give you my word, when I was stayin' with old Fred Derriman, in Perthshire, they reg'larly mapped out the whole place for pic-nics, and I'm dashed if they didn't spoil our best day's drivin by pic-nickin' in, 'oh, such a sweet place.' Truth is, they can't get along without us, my son, only they won't admit it, bless 'em! And, after all, we're better off when they're in the house, I'm bound to confess; so I don't mind lettin' 'em have a pic-nic or two, just to keep 'em sweet. Them's my sentiments, old cock, and you're welcome to them."

I thanked the Captain for his courtesy, and withdrew. But if the whole thing is merely a matter of pic-nics, it is far simpler than I imagined.

MR. PUNCH'S SKATING PARTY.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"Have you read," asks one of the Baron's Assistants of his Chief, "Miss Braddon's Christmas Annual? It is entitled, The Misletoe Bough, and contains some of the best short stories I have read lately. One of them, 'In Mr. Cartwright's Library,' is a remarkable combination of quaint, dry humour, and literary skill. Who is the clever author? But here are other stories, too, that interest and please, and, not least among them, a charming sketch, by the ever welcome editress. Bravo, Miss Braddon!

"Brownies and Rose-leaves, by Roma White (Innes & Co.), is a pretty little book, prettily written, prettily illustrated by Leslie Brooke, and prettily bound," he continues. "Miss White has a charming knack of writing musical verse, simple, rhythmical, delightful. To children and their parents, I say, take my tip (the only one parents will get at this season), and read Roma White's dainty, delicate, fresh and breezy book."

ROBIN POOR FELLOW!

Robin Goodfellow, by Mr. Carton, is not a brilliant play, as its dialogue lacks epigrammatic sparkle: neither is it an interesting play, as the plot, such as it is, is too weak for words,—which, by the way, at once accounts for the absence of the sparkle above-mentioned.

Three questions must have occurred to those who have already seen the play, and which those who may hereafter see it will be sure to ask themselves,—and they are these:—

Nearly burning his fingers. Mr. Hare acting with Grace.
Nearly burning his fingers. Mr. Hare acting with Grace.

First. Why should Grace's father, Valentine Barbrook, tell her of the means by which he had brought about the betrothal of Hugh Rokeby to Constance?

Secondly. This being so, why allow six weeks to elapse when a word from the one girl, who knows, to the other, who doesn't, would explain everything?

Thirdly. If a sudden shock would kill the grandmother, surely, in the course of six weeks, Grace would have found out that her shortest and best way was to tell the truth to her cousin, without mentioning it to the old lady.

If in doubt, why didn't she confide in the Doctor, who would at once have told her whether the nature of the communication she had to make was of a sufficiently startling nature to kill the old lady right off or not?

The fact is, it was necessary to keep the lover, Mr. Stanley Trevenen, away for some time, in order to allow of there being a glimmer of probability in the announcement of his having thrown over the girl to whom he is devotedly attached, and having married somebody else whom he met abroad. "Now," says the dramatist, "what is the shortest possible space of time I can allow for this? Ahem!—say a month." So he gives him a month. "Then," says he, next, "what is the shortest possible time we can allow for an engagement and a marriage? Say six weeks. Good. Six weeks be it. Only, hang it, this muddle has to last for six weeks! Well, it can't be helped. I can't give any more trouble to the bothering plot; and, as after all, there's a capital character for Mr. Hare, and not at all a bad one for Miss Rorke, with a fairish one for Forbes Robertson, why, if Mr. Hare will accept the play, and do it, I should say that, cast and played as it will be, it is pretty sure to be a success."

The Happy Pair. The Happy Pair.

So much for the Author and the Play. As to the Actors, Mr. Hare has had many a better part, and this is but an inferior species of a genus with which the public has long been familiar; but there is no one who can touch him in a part of this description. Admirable! most admirable! Barbrook is in reality a silly elderly scamp, with all the will to be a villain but not endowed with the brains requisite for that line of life. Thus, the Author, unconsciously, has created him. But Mr. Hare invests this feather-headed scoundrel with Iago-ish and Mephistophelian characteristics, that go very near to make the audience believe that, after all, there is something in the part, and also in the plot. But the part is only a snowman, and melts away under the sunlight of criticism. Miss Kate Rorke is charming. It is a monotonous and wearisome part, and the merit of it is her own. Miss Norreys is very good but the girl is insipid. Miss Compton, as the good-hearted, knowing, fast lady, wins us, as she proves herself to be the real Robin Goodfellow, the real good fairy of the piece, Robin Goodfellow is a misnomer, unless the aforesaid Robin be dissociated from Puck: but it is altogether a bad title as applied to this piece for, as with Mr. Carton's piece at the St. James's, Liberty Hall, it is a title absolutely thrown away. Mr. Forbes Robertson is as good as the part permits, and it is the Author's fault that he is not better. Mr. Gilbert Hare gives a neat bit of character as the Doctor, and Mr. Donald Robertson may by now have made something of the rather foolish Clergyman (whether Rector, Vicar, or Curate I could not make out), whose stupid laugh began by making a distinct hit, and, on frequent repetition, became a decided bore. It is played in one Scene and three Acts, and no doubt in the course of a fortnight certain repetitious and needless lines will have been excised, and the piece will play closer, and may be an attraction, but not a great one, for some time to come. At all events, the part of Valentine Barbrook will add another highly-finished picture to Mr. Hare's gallery of eccentric comedy-character. I think of him with delight, and exclaim, once more—Admirable!

Private Box.

At Drury Lane the Baddeley Cake Meeting was a Goodly sight.

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.

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