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PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 99.



December 6, 1890.




MODERN TYPES.

(_BY MR. PUNCH'S OWN TYPE WRITER._)

NO. XXII.--THE MANLY MAIDEN.

The Manly Maiden may be defined as the feminine exaggeration of those
rougher qualities which men display in their intercourse with one
another, or in the pursuit of those sports in which courage, strength,
and endurance play a part. In a fatal moment she conceives the idea
that she can earn the proud title of "a good fellow" by emulating
the fashions and the habits of the robuster sex. She perceives that
men have a liking for men who are strong, bluff, outspoken, and
contemptuous of peril, and she infers mistakenly, that the same
tribute of admiration is certain to be paid to a woman who, setting
the traditions of her sex at defiance, consciously apes the manly
model without a thought of all that the imitation involves. She
forgets that as soon as a woman steps down of her own free will from
the pedestal on which the chivalrous admiration of men has placed her,
she abandons at once her claim to that flattering reticence of speech,
and that specially attentive courtesy of bearing, which are in men the
outward and visible signs of the spiritual grace which they assume
as an attribute of all women. In spite of what the crazy theorists
of the perfect equality school may say, men still continue to expect
and to admire in women precisely those qualities in which they feel
themselves to be chiefly deficient. Their reverence and affection are
bestowed upon her whose voice is ever soft, gentle and low, and whose
mild influence is shed like a balm upon the labours and troubles of
life. Of slang, and of slaps upon the back, of strength, whether of
language or of body, they get enough and to spare amongst themselves,
and they are scarcely to be blamed if at certain moments they should
prefer refinement to roughness, and gentleness to gentlemen. However,
these obvious considerations have no weight with the Manly Maiden.
In fact they never occur to her, and hence arise failures, and
humiliations, and disappointments not a few.

[Illustration]

The Manly Maiden is not, as a rule, the natural product of a genuine
country life. The daughter of rich parents, who have spent a great
part of their lives in a centre of commercial activity, she is
introduced to a new home in the country at about the age of fourteen.
Seeing that all those who live in the neighbourhood are in one way or
another associated with outdoor sports, and that the favour in which
the men are held and their fame vary directly as their power to ride
or to shoot straight, she becomes possessed by the notion that she too
must, if she is to please at all, be proficient in the sports of men.
Merely to ride to hounds is, of course, not sufficiently distinctive.
Many women do that, without losing at all the ordinary characteristics
of women. She must ride bare-backed, she must understand a horse's
ailments and his points, she must trudge (in the constant society of
men) over fallows and through turnips in pursuit of partridges, she
must be able to talk learnedly of guns, of powders, and of shot, she
must possess a gun of her own, and think she knows how to use it, she
must own a retriever, and herself make him submissive by the frequent
application of a silver-headed dog-whip.

These attainments are her ideals of earthly bliss, and she sets out
to realise them with a terrible perseverance. Her father, of course,
knows but little of sport. He is, however, afflicted with the ordinary
desire to shine as a sportsman, and as a host of sportsmen. He
stocks his coverts with game, and invites large shooting parties to
stay with him. He himself takes to a gun as a hen might take to the
water; although, as his daughter contemptuously expresses it, he is
calculated to miss a hippopotamus at ten yards, he seems to imagine,
if one may be permitted to judge from the wild frequency of his shots,
that it is the easiest thing in the world to hit a pheasant or a
partridge flying at ten times that distance. From such a father the
Manly Maiden easily secures permission, first of all, to walk with the
men while they are shooting, and subsequently to carry a gun herself.

And now the difficulties of the situation begin to make themselves
felt, not, indeed, by her, for she remains sublimely unconscious to
the end, but by the men who are compelled to associate with her upon
her ventures. No man will ever hesitate to rebuke another for carrying
his gun in such a way as to threaten danger; but, when a lady allows
him to inspect the inside of her loaded gun-barrels, or shoots down
the line at an evasive rabbit, he must suffer in silence, and can only
seek compensation for restraining his tongue by incontinently removing
his body to a safe place, where he can neither shoot nor be shot. At
luncheon, however, he may be gratified by hearing the Manly Maiden
rally him on the poor result of his morning's sport. She will then
favour him, at length, with her opinions as to how a driven partridge
or a rocketing pheasant should be shot, flavouring her discourse with
copious extracts from the Badminton books on shooting, and adding here
and there imaginative reminiscences of her own exploits in dealing
death. In the hunting-field she will lose her groom, and babble sport
to the Master, with whom she further ingratiates herself by rating and
lashing one of his favourite hounds, or by heading the fox whenever
he attempts to break away. She then crosses him at an awkward fence,
and considers herself aggrieved by the strong language which breaks
irresistibly from the fallen sportsman's lips. Later on she astonishes
an elderly follower of the hounds by asking him for a draught from his
flask, and completes his amazement by complaining of the thoughtless
manner in which he has diluted his brandy.

In the evening she will narrate her adventures at length, amidst
a chorus of admiring comments from her fond parents, and their
parasites, and will follow up her triumphs of the day by pursuing the
men into the smoking-room, where she permits one of them to offer
her a cigarette, and imagines that she delights him by accepting it.
On such an occasion she will inform one of her friends that, on the
whole, she has but a poor opinion of Diana of the Ephesians, seeing
that she only hunted with women, and never allowed men to approach
her. From this it may be inferred that her stock of classical
allusions is not quite so accurate and complete as that of a genuine
sportswoman should be. Next morning she may be seen schooling her
horses in the park. She has a touching faith in the use both of spur
and of whip whenever the occasion seems least to demand them, and
she despises the man who rides without rowels, and reverences one who
attempts impossible jumps without discrimination. During the summer
she spends a considerable part of her time in "getting fit" for the
labours of the autumn and winter. Sometimes she even plays cricket,
and has been known to address the ball that bowled her in highly
uncomplimentary terms.

So the years pass on. She never learns that it is possible for a woman
on certain occasions to be in the way of men, nor does her accuracy
or her care with a gun increase. If she marries at all, she will marry
some feeble creature who has no feeling for sport, and over whom she
can lord it to her heart's content. But it is more probable that she
will remain unwedded, and will develop eventually from a would-be
harding-riding maiden, into a genuinely hard-featured old maid.

       *       *       *       *       *

A MUSICAL POLE STAR.

The Irish Polar Star Musical, yclept our Paddy REWSKI, gave his last
"recital" at St. James's Hall, Thursday, November 27. Bedad, then,
'tis Misther Paddy REWSKI himself that is the broth of a boy entirely
at the piano-forte, but, Begorra, he's better at the _piano_ than
the _forte._ He gave us a nice mixture of HANDEL, BEETHOVEN, CHOPIN,
LISZT, and then a neat little compo of his own, consisting of a
charming theme, with mighty ingenious and beautiful variations, all
his own, divil a less. Great success for Paddy REWSKI. The Irish Pole,
or Pole-ished Irishman, has thoroughly mastered his art, but if he has
learnt how to master tune he has not yet perfected himself in _keeping
strict time_, as he took his seat at the piano just one quarter of
an hour late. Paddy REWSKI, me bhoy, when next you give us a recital,
remember that punctuality is the soul of business. _Au revoir_, Paddy
REWSKI!

Yours entirely, JIM KRO MESKI.

       *       *       *       *       *

ADVICE GRATIS.--Go and see _London Assurance_, with "CHARLES our
friend" in it, at the Criterion. It has, probably, never yet been put
on the stage as it is _hic et nunc_. Well worth seeing as a _curio_.
But what tin-pot nonsense is the Tally-ho speech of _Lady Grace
Harkaway_. And yet it has always "gone," and _London Assurance_
itself, like the sly Reynard of the speech, has invariably shown good
sport, and given a good run for the money.

       *       *       *       *       *

MAD WAGGERY.--_The Chequers_ is not the name of a wayside inn, but
of one of those modern inventions calculated to help to fill Colney
Hatch. A Puzzle it is, and it can be done--at least so say FELTHAM
& CO. Anyhow, they don't sell the solution, they only provide the
mystery.

       *       *       *       *       *

AN OLD-FASHIONED CHRISTMAS NUMBER (_which is sure not to be
forgotten_).--Number One.

       *       *       *       *       *

A CAUTION TO SNAKES.

[Illustration: Liberty, in a forest, flees a rattlesnake wearing an
Indian headdress.]

"There is, however, another opinion prevalent among the less educated
which gives to the Rattle-snake the vindictive spirit of the North
American Indian, and asserts that it adds a new joint to its rattle
whenever it has slain a human being, thus bearing in its tail the
fearful trophies of its prowess, just as the Indians wear the scalps
of slain foes."--_Wood's Natural History_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  "INGINS is Snakes!" And from its lair
  This snake seems stirring. Who cries "Scare!"?
    Well, they who hear the rattle
  Close at their heels, its spring will dread,
  And wary watch and cautious tread,
    And arm as though for battle.

  Even to drive the keen-fanged snake
  From its old home in swamp or brake
    Irks sensitive humanity;
  But they who know the untamed thing,
  Have felt its fang, have seen its spring,
    Hold mercy mere insanity.

  Untamed, untameable, it hides,
  _Anguis in herbâ_, coils and glides,
    And strikes when least expected,
  And who shall blame its watchful foe
  Who stands prepared to strike a blow,
    When the swift death's detected?

  In the dark jungle dim and damp
  It lurks, and Civilisation's tramp
    Disturbs its sanctuary.
  Hard on the snake? Perchance, perchance!
  But Civilisation, to advance,
    Must ruthless be, as wary.

  "Vindictive spirit" of the wild,
  'Twixt you and Progress' pale-faced child
    Fated vendetta rages,
  And Pity's self stands powerless
  To help you counter with success
    The onset of the ages.

  Long driven, lingeringly you lurk;
  Steel and starvation ply their work
    Of slow extermination.
  Armed once again Columbia stands,
  And who'd arrest avenging hands,
    Must challenge--Civilisation.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MANNERS OF THE BAR.

A SKETCH IN THE LAW COURTS, SHOWING THE PATIENT AND RESPECTFUL
ATTENTION OF THE COUNSEL FOR THE PLAINTIFF DURING THE SPEECH OF
COUNSEL FOR DEFENDANT.]

       *       *       *       *       *

The Archbishop of CANTERBURY's learned judgment in the Lincoln Case
was very much after the style in which His Grace parts his hair. It
was a first-rate example of the _Via Media_.

       *       *       *       *       *

A PAGE FROM A POSSIBLE DIARY.

(_WRITTEN IN THE WILD WEST._)

_Monday_.--Well, here I am. Guess I have got together a pretty tidy
Army, that should beat BARNUM into small potatoes. The Arabs from
Earl's Court will soon go along straight enough. They seem to miss the
Louvre Theatre over yonder, where they were on the free list. Rather
a pity I can't start a Show here, but I calculate the country is too
disturbed.

_Tuesday_.--Nothing much doing. Sent along to SMALL BITE, and he has
promised to come round along with a few of the Ghost-Dancers to let
me see what I think of them. Fancy the _ballet_ has been done before.
That clever cuss GUS, must have used it at Covent Garden when he put
up _Robert the Devil_. It seems like the Nun Ballet--uncommonly.

_Wednesday_.--SMALL BITE is here. He's friendly enough, but his terms
are too high. Fancy they must have been trying to annex him for the
Aquarium. The Ghost-Dance is a fraud. Nothing in it. Might fake
it up a bit with national flags and red fire. But it's decidedly
disappointing. Altogether small pumpkins.

_Thursday_.--Settlers want to know when I am going to begin. They are
always in such a darned hurry. They ought to know I am the hero of a
hundred fights (see my Autobiography--a few copies of which may still
be had at the almost nominal price of half-a-dollar) and should rely
on me accordingly. Am to visit the Indian Camp to-morrow.

_Friday_.--Terms agreed. SMALL BITE and fifty braves engage themselves
for six months certain, sharing terms, travelling exes, and one clear
benefit. I find front of the curtain and advertising, they provide
entertainment, which is to include Ghost-Dance (with banners and
red fire) religious rites, war-dance, and scalping expedition
with incidentals (SMALL BITE says he knows "some useful knockabout
niggers") and procession in and out of towns. Think I can boom it.

_Saturday_.--My connection with war ended. Calculate I start to-morrow
with the Show across the herring-pond, to wake up the Crowned Heads of
Europe!

       *       *       *       *       *

TO THE BIG BACILLICIDE.

  O DOCTOR KOCH, if you can slay
    Those horrid germs that kill us,
  You'll be _the_ hero of the day,
    Great foe of the Bacillus!
  What champion may we match with you
    In all the world of fable?
  St. George, who the Great Dragon slew,
    The Knights of ARTHUR's Table,
  E'en gallant giant-slaying JACK,
    The British nursery's darling;
  Or JENNER, against whom the pack
    Of faddists now are snarling,
  Must second fiddle play to him
    Who stayed the plague of phthisis,
  And plumbed a mystery more dim
    And deep than that of Isis.
  For what are Dragons, Laidly Worms,
    And such-like mythic scourges,
  Compared with microscopic germs
    'Gainst which the war he urges?
  Hygeia, goddess, saint, or nymph,
    We trust there's no big blunder,
  And hope your votary's magic lymph
    May prove no nine days' wonder.
  We dare not trust each pseudo-seer
    Who'd powder, purge, or pill us;
  But pyramids to him we'll rear
    Who baffles the Bacillus.

       *       *       *       *       *

STRANGE TRANSFORMATION.--From the _Times_ Correspondent, U.S., we
learned, last week, that somebody who had been "a Bull," was now "a
Bear." What next will he be?--A donkey? Or did he begin with this, and
will he end by being a goose?

       *       *       *       *       *

PROSPECT FOR CHRISTMAS.--"TUCK," i.e., RAPHAEL of that ilk. The
"Correct (Christmas) Card."

       *       *       *       *       *

"A PAIR OF SPECTACLES."

[Illustration]

The first spectacle classic and Shakspearian: t'other burlesquian,
and PETTIT-cum-SIMS. The one at the Princess's, the other at the
Gaiety. _Place au_ "Divine WILLIAMS"! _Antony and Cleopatra_ is
magnificently put on the stage. The costumes are probably O.K.--"all
correct"--seeing that Mr. LEWIS WINGFIELD pledges his honourable
name for the fact. We might have done with a few less, perhaps, but,
as in the celebrated case of the war-song of the Jingoes, if we've
got the men, and the money too, then there was every reason why the
redoubtable LEWIS (whose name, as brotherly Masons will call to mind,
means "Strength") should have put a whole army of Romans on the stage,
if it so pleased him.

[Illustration: The Last Scene of Antony and Cleopatra.]

For its _mise-en-scène_ alone the revival should attract all
London. But there is more than this--there is the clever and careful
impersonation of _Enobarbus_ by His Gracious Heaviness, Mr. ARTHUR
STIRLING; then there is a lighter-comedy touch in the courteous and
gentlemanly rendering of _Octavius Cæsar_ by Mr. F. KEMBLE COOPER--one
of the best things in the piece, but from the inheritor of two such
good old theatrical names, much is expected. And then there is
the _Mark Antony_ of Mr. CHARLES COGHLAN, a rantin', roarin' boy,
this _Antony_, whom no one, I believe, could ever have made really
effective; and finally. Her Graceful Majesty, Mrs. LANGTRY, Queen of
Egyptian Witchery. Now honestly I do not consider _Cleopatra_ a good
part, nor is the play a good play for the matter of that. I believe
it never has been a success, but if, apart from the really great
attraction of gorgeous spectacular effects, there is any one scene
above another which might well draw all London, it is the death of
_Cleopatra_, which to my mind is--after the fall of WOLSEY, and a long
way after, too,--one of the most pathetic pictures ever presented on
the stage. So lonely in her grandeur, so grand, and yet so pitiable in
her loneliness is this poor Queen of Beauty, this Empress-Butterfly,
who can conquer conquerors, and for whose sake not only her noble
lovers, but her poor humble serving-maids, are willing to die.

[Illustration: The Run of Cleopatra.]

Her last scene is beyond all compare her best, and to those who are
inclined to be disappointed with the play after the first Act is
over I say, "Wait for the end," and don't leave until the Curtain has
descended on that gracious figure of the Queen of Egypt, attired in
her regal robes, crowned with her diadem, holding her sceptre, but
dead in her chair of state. _Ça donne à penser_.

_The Gaiety_.--In calling their burlesque _Carmen up to Data_,
possibly the two dear clever boys who wrote it intended some
crypto-jocosity of which the hidden meaning is known only to the
initiated in these sublime mysteries. Why "_Data_"? On the other hand,
"Why not?"

However attractive or not as a heading in a bill of the play,
the Gaiety _Carmen_ is, on the whole, a merry, bright, and light
burlesque-ish piece, though, except in the costume and make-up of Mr.
ARTHUR WILLIAMS as _Captain Zuniga_, there is nothing extraordinarily
"burlesque" in the appearance of any of the characters, as the
appearance of Mr. HORACE MILLS as _Remendado_ belongs more to
Christmas pantomime than to the sly suggestiveness of real burlesque.

[Illustration: Scene from the Cigarette History of _Carmen_.]

As Miss ST. JOHN simply looks, acts, and sings as a genuine _Carmen_,
I can only suppose that her voice is not strong enough for the real
Opera; otherwise I doubt whether any better operatic impersonator of
the real character could be found. She is not the least bit burlesque,
and though the songs she has to sing are nothing like so telling
as those she has had given her in former pieces, yet, through her
rendering, most are encored, and all thoroughly appreciated.

[Illustration: In for a good Run on the "Bogie" System.]

Mr. ARTHUR WILLIAMS as _Zuniga_ is very droll, reminding some of us,
by his make-up and jerky style, of MILHER as the comic _Valentine_
in _Le Petit Faust_. Mr. LONNEN is also uncommonly good as the spoony
soldier, and in the telling song of "_The Bogie Man_;" and in the
still more telling dance with which he finishes it and makes his exit,
he makes _the_ hit of the evening,--in fact the hit by which the
piece will he remembered, and to which it owes the greater part of its
success.

In the authors' latest adaptation of the very ancient "business" of
"the statues"--consisting of a verse, and then an attitude, I was
disappointed, as I had been led to believe that here we should see
what Mr. LONNEN could do in the Robsonian or burlesque-tragedy style.
The brilliancy of the costumes, of the scenery, the grace of the four
dancers, and the excellence of band and chorus, under the direction
of that ancient mariner MEYER LUTZ, are such as are rarely met with
elsewhere.

Mr. GEORGE EDWARDES may now attend to the building of his new theatre,
as _Carmen up to Data_ will not give him any trouble for some time to
come.

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

[Illustration]

Only a Penny! And well worth every halfpenny of it. I am alluding
to the Christmas Number of the _Penny Illustrated Paper_, in which
appears _A Daughter of the People_, by JOHN LATEY, Junior, who is
Junior than ever in December. Capital Christmas Number, and will
attract an extraordinary number of Christmas readers.

_The Rosebud Annual_, published by JAMES CLARK & CO., is quite a
bright posy for our very little ones.

Turning from novels, it is a relief to come across so inviting a
little volume as the _Pocket Atlas, and Gazetteer of Canada_, which
will be found of the greatest possible value to eccentric Londoners
who purpose visiting the Dominion during the coming Winter.

"_Persicos odi_," but you won't agree with HORACE if you follow this
"_puer apparatus_" of G. NORWAY, who, in _Hussein's Hostage_, gives us
the exciting adventures of a Persian boy.

_'Twixt School and College_, by GORDON STABLES, has nothing to do
with horsey experiences, as suggested by the author's name, but is the
uneventful home-life of a poor Scotch laddie, who triumphs by dint of
pluck.

_Nutbrown Roger and I_, by J.H. YOXALL, a romance of the highway,
quite in the correct style of disguises and blunderbusses always so
necessary for a tale of this kind.

_Disenchantment_ is the--not altogether--enticing title of "an
everyday story," by F. MABEL ROBINSON, author of _The Plan of
Campaign_. It is rather a long tale to tell, for it takes 432 pages
in the unravelling. It ends with a beautiful avowal that "the heart
is no more unchanging than the mind, and that love's not immortal,
but an illusion." As the utterer of this truism is a young married
woman, it would seem that the foundation is laid for a sequel to
_Disenchantment_ that might be appropriately called _Divorce_.

_The Secret of the Old House_, by EVELYN EVERETT GREEN, who evidently
can't keep a secret to himself, will be so no longer when the children
have satisfied their curiosity by reading the book.

My faithful "Co." declares that he has been recently hard at work
novel-reading. He has been revelling in an atmosphere of romance.
He has been moved almost to tears by _Lady Hazleton's Confession_,
by Mrs. KENT SPENDER, which, he says, includes, amongst many moving
passages, some glimpses of Parliamentary life. _Friend Olivia_, in
one bulky volume, takes the reader back to the days of CROMWELL, when
people said "hath," instead of "has," and "pray resolve me truly,"
instead of "don't sell me;" and "Mr. JOHN MILTON" played upon the
organ. It has a fine old crusty Puritan flavour about it, which,
however, does not prevent the hero and heroine, in the last page,
reading a letter together, "with smiles, and little laughs, and sweet
asides, and sweeter kisses." Altogether, a book to read when a library
does _not_ contain WALTER SCOTT, ALEXANDRE DUMAS _père_, G.P.R. JAMES,
or HARRISON AINSWORTH. _Two Masters_ deals with passages in the life
of a young lady who is described as "a Boarding-school Miss" in Volume
I., and "a young she-fiend" in Volume III. However, it is only right
to say, that the last compliment is paid to her by a gentlemanly
murderer, who takes poison and a cigarette, with a view to escaping a
justly-deserved death on the gallows. From this it may be seen, that
the novel is at times slightly sensational. Fearing that his Christmas
might be saddened by this last ghastly incident, were not the
impression created by it partially removed by less highly-seasoned
fare, my faithful "Co." has also read _Mary Hamilton, a Tale for
Girls, My Schoolfellows_, and _Bonnie Boy's Soap Bubble_. He considers
the first admirably adapted to the comprehension of the readers to
whom it is addressed, only the girls, he says, should be _very_ young
girls. _My Schoolfellows_ he intends reading again when he has reached
his second childhood, when he fancies he will be better pleased with
the humours of "_Guzzling Gus_" and "_Ned Never Mind_." In conclusion,
he admits that he is a little doubtful about the merits or demerits of
_Bonnie Boy's Soap Bubble_. He explains, that while he was reading it
he "fell a thinking," and that when he woke up, the volume was lying
on the floor. Since then, he adds, he really has not had the leisure
to pick it up.

_The Snake's Pass_, by BRAM STOKER, M.A. (SAMPSON LOW), is a simple
love-story, a pure idyl of Ireland, which does not seem, after all, to
be so distressful a country to live in. Whiskey punch flows like milk
through the land; the loveliest girls abound, and seem instinctively
to be drawn towards the right man. Also there are jooled crowns to be
found by earnest seekers, with at least one large packing-case crammed
with rare coins. The love-scenes are frequent and tempting. BRAM has
an eye to scenery, and can describe it. He knows the Irish peasant,
and reproduces his talk with a fidelity which almost suggests that he,
too, is descended from one of the early kings, whereas, as everyone
knows, he lives in London and adds grace and dignity to "the front" of
the Lyceum on First Nights and others. He is perfectly overwhelming
in his erudition in respect of the science of drainage, which, if all
stories be true, he might find opportunity of turning to account in
the every-day (or, rather, every-night) world of the theatre. In his
novel he utilises it in the preliminaries of shifting a mighty bog,
the last stages whereof are described in a chapter that, for sustained
interest, recalls CHARLES READE's account of the breaking of the
Sheffield Reservoir. The novel-reader will do well not to pass by _The
Snake's Pass_. THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS & CO.

       *       *       *       *       *

RED VERSUS BLACK.

(_TWO VIEWS OF THE SAME PLACE, BY GENTLEMEN "WHO WRITE TO THE
PAPERS."_)

_Opinion No. 1._--Monte Carlo! One of the most disgraceful places in
Europe--a blot upon our civilisation. The gambling is productive of
the greatest possible misery. It is an institution that should be held
up to the execration of mankind. All the riffraff of the globe are
attracted to this hideous spot. The place is like an upas-tree, under
which everything noble and good languishes and dies! The form of
Government is absolutely immoral. It is a scandal that rates, and
taxes, and public improvements should be paid for out of the private
purse of the Director. He could not afford it had he not made a
fortune out of his ill-gotten gains! Anyone who has watched at
the tables knows that the chances are absolutely unfair--that the
Direction must win. Not that this matters much. It is the general
immorality of the place that is so alarming. The place should be
closed at once; and persons who have lost anything, say, during the
last year, should have their money promptly returned to them. And I
say this without any bias, although I _did_ back Red, and Black came
up ten times running!

P.S.--Just won a trifle. Not so sure that my pessimist view may not be
modified.

_Opinion No. 2._--Monte Carlo! Without exception, the loveliest
spot in Europe. The so-called gambling is the cause of numberless
blessings. It is an institution that should be held up to the
admiration of mankind. All the aristocracy of the civilised world
flock to it to indulge in a recreation to which only the greatly
prejudiced can possibly take exception. The Government is benevolent
to the last degree. In what other country are rates, taxes, and
improvements paid for you? If the Director were not the best of men,
how could this be done? The play itself is absolutely fair. And, with
a system, and a sufficiency of capital, anyone is able to realise a
large fortune in less than no time. Not that this absolute certainty
should be taken into consideration. It is the general morality of the
place that is so encouraging. The place should never close. And it
would be a graceful thing if those who have laid in a store for their
old age were to return a trifle, to be expended on some charity. And
I say this without any bias, although I have backed Black ten times
successfully.

P.S.--Just lost all I had. Not so sure that my optimist view is not
open to rectification!

       *       *       *       *       *

BULL AND BULLION.

(_ON GOLD, AFTER GOLDSMITH._)

  When British Commerce stoops to folly,
    And finds too late that Bonds betray,
  What charm can soothe her melancholy,
    And the big rush for bullion stay?

  To save herself from shameful ruin
    (Ask Monsieur LAUR!) her only chance
  Lies--full revenge for Waterloo!--in
    Big borrowings from generous France.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Mr. Punch Among the Planets_ is the title of _Mr. Punch's_ Christmas
Number, _vice_ Almanack superseded. Ask for this, and "see that you
get it"!

       *       *       *       *       *

VOX STELLARUM.--The New Comet, November 19, Boston, U.S., suddenly
appeared, and was heard to exclaim, "But, soft! I am observed!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.--A DIOCESAN CONFERENCE.

"LOOK 'ERE, BILL! BLEST IF THESE BEAN'T A LOT O' PARSONS ON STRIKE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"SEPARATISTS."

(_FRAGMENTS OF A MODERN "MARMION."_)

    "But DOUGLAS round him drew his cloak,
    Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:--
    *  *  *  *  *
    'The hand of DOUGLAS is his own,
    And never shall in friendly grasp
    The hand of such as MARMION clasp.'"
    *  *  *  *  *

  "The hand of such as MARMION!" Ay!
  Great Singer of the knightly lay,
    Thy tale of Flodden field
  Is darkened by unknightly stain.
  That slackened arm and burdened brain
  Of him found low among the slain,
    Constrained at last to yield
  To a mere "base marauder's lance;"
  He, firm of front and cold of glance,
  The dark, the dauntless MARMION.--
  The days of chivalry are gone,
  Dispraisers of the present say,
  Yet men arm still for party fray
    As fierce as foray old;
  And mail is donned, and steel is drawn,
  And champions challenging at dawn
    Ere night lie still and cold.
  Two champions here 'midst loud applause,
  Have led the lists in a joint cause
    On many a tourney morn,
  Have fought to vanward in the field
  Full many an hour, and, sternly steeled,
    One banner forward borne.
  And now--ah, well, as DOUGLAS old
  On MARMION looked sternly cold,
    So looks this Chieftain grey
  On his old comrade, though the fight
  Is forward now, and many a knight
    Is arming for the fray.
  As "the demeanour changed and cold
  Of DOUGLAS fretted MARMION bold,"
  Has this old greyhaired Chieftain's chill
  Fretted that man of icy will?
    Who knows--or cares to know?
  At least he "has to learn ere long
  That constant mind, and hate of wrong"
  Than steely pride are yet more strong;
    That shame can strike a blow
  At comradeship more fatal far
  Than any chance of fateful war
  When faction howled with Cerberus throat,
  When falsehood struck a felon stroke,
    When forgery did its worst
  To pull its hated quarry down,
  To dim, disarm, degrade, discrown.
    Against the array accurst
  That ancient chief made gallant head,
  Dismayed not, nor disquieted
    At rancour's rude assault.
  He shared opprobrium undeserved,
  But not for that had courage swerved,
    Or loyalty made default.
  But now? The hand that reared hath razed;
  And as old ANGUS stood amazed
    At WILTON's shameful tale,
  So fealty here must bend the brow,
  And faith, though sorely tried, till now
    Surviving, faint and fail;
  As DOUGLAS round him drew his cloak,
  So, saddened by unknightly stroke,
    The ancient chief must draw;
  Nor in mere pharisaic scorn,
  But in the name of faith foresworn
    And honour's broken law.

  "'Tis pity of him, too!" 'Twas so,
  The half-relenting ANGUS, low
    Spake in his snowy beard.
  "Bold can he speak, and fairly ride:
  I warrant him a warrior tried."
    A foeman to be feared,
  A leader to be trusted, seemed
  This dark, cold chief, and few had dreamed
    Of such strange severance.
  And any not ignoble eye
  In sorrow more than mockery
    Aside will gladly glance.
  'Tis pity of it! Right or wrong,
  The Cause needs champions true as strong,
    And blameless as they're bold.
  "A sinful heart makes feeble hand,"
  Cried MARMION, his "failing brand"
    Cursing with lips grown cold.
  Let vulgar venom triumph here,
  And hate, itself from shame not clear,
    Make haste to hurl the stone;
  A nobler foe will stand aside,
  And more in sorrow than in pride,
  Not hot to harry or deride,
  Like DOUGLAS in his halls abide,
    But keep his hand--his own!

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM A THEATRICAL CORRESPONDENT.--Sir,--I know a lot about London
and N.B., but never till now did I know of the existence of 'ARRY
in Scotland. The character is now represented, as I am informed,
on the stage, by Mr. BEERBOHM TREE, who, in a play called _Back_,
impersonates the MAC ARRY. Odd, this! for the McCOCKNIE. P.S.--One
lives and learns. [*** If McCOCKNIE is to learn much, he will have to
become a McMETHUSELAH. The piece to which he alludes is _Called Back_,
by HUGH CONWAY and COMYNS CARR, and the part in it, excellently played
by Mr. TREE, is _Macari_, an Italian.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "SEPARATISTS."

Douglas ... Mr. Gl-dst-ne. Marmion ... Mr. P-rn-ll.

Douglas. "THE HAND OF DOUGLAS IS HIS OWN; AND NEVER SHALL IN FRIENDLY
GRASP THE HAND OF SUCH AS MARMION CLASP!"--_Marmion_, Canto VI.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A LORD OF THE ADMIRALTY VERY MUCH AT SEA.

(_AN INCIDENT OF MR. ASHMEAD-BARTLETT'S RECENT TOUR IN IRELAND._)

_Mr. A.B._ "WHY PAT, MY LAD, I SEE NOTHING TO COMPLAIN OF HERE. THESE
POTATOES ARE REMARKABLY FINE!"

_Pat_. "BEDAD, SOR, BUT THEY'RE NOT PRATIES AT ALL, AT ALL. SHURE,
IT'S THE TURNIPS YOUR HONOUR'S LOOKING AT!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

PARS ABOUT PICTURES.

"The Royal Society of Painters in Water-Colours?" said young PAR.
"Nonsense! why all the water is frozen now, and so they can't paint!"
"Precisely," replied I; "and that's why it is a nice exhibition!"
This so startled Young PAR that he slipped and fell. I turned into
the Gallery in Pall Mall, and left him sitting on the cold hard flags
outside. Inside pleasant enough. BIRKET FOSTER's "_Island of Rum_"
very comforting--should like some hot. HERBERT MARSHALL--our own
City MARSHALL--has gone further afield, to "_Old Chelsea_." Should
now be called the Field MAR SHALL. MATTHEW HALE, in "_Gathering
Blackberries_," is a hail fellow well met! "_The Corso, Verona_," by
S.J. HODSON, shows that HODSON's choice is a good one. HENRY MOORE's
sea-pieces--the more the merrier, say I. "_Warkworth--Sunlit Shower_,"
by A.W. HUNT: a walk worth taking when the hunt is up. "_Holidays Past
and Future_," suggests wide subjects and open spaces. Why, then, is
it painted by SMALLFIELD? "_Wreck of the Halswell_," is a terrible
catastrophe. Can't be "All's Well." Possibly the painter, G.H.
ANDREWS, means "all swell"--that seems a great deal more likely.
ALBERT GOODWIN shows himself to be a good winner in the "_Ponte
Vecchio, Florence_." DU MAURIER delights us with some clever Society
sketches in pen and pencil. The veteran, Sir JOHN GILBERT, is as
young, as dashing, as vigorous as ever. H.G. GLINDONI has two pictures
full of humour and character. STACY MARKS' "_Cockatoo_" looks as if
it had just flown in from the Zoo. "_Au Sgarnach_," by C.B. PHILLIP.
Title difficult to understand. Landscape easy to comprehend. A close
study of Nature, admirably painted. A wholesome Phillippic against
namby-pamby prettiness. "_On the Thames_," by G.A. FRIPP, honestly
painted, and no frippery about it. Miss CLARA MONTALBA has a large
number of pictures of Venice--and Mr. RIDGE comes up and says he is
the Keeper. What Keeper? He whispers, he is the Keeper of the Cold
Out--What an oridginal remark!--and will I step into the Committee
Room? I do, and remain there, and continue to be

Yours par-adoxically, OLD PAR.

       *       *       *       *       *

ROBERT AT THE HOPERA.

I was habel the other day to do BROWN a good turn by getting him
engaged at won of our big Otels, so he kindly offerd to stand a
supper, and then take me to the Hopera at Common Garden. We went to
see _Horfay_.

It seems that wunce upon a time, ever so many thowsand years ago,
before there was not no Lord Mares, nor no Shirryffs, nor not ewen
no Aldermen, a Gent of the name of _Horfay_ lived in Grease. He was
the werry grandest Fiddler of his time, a regler JOEY KIM. Well, he
married a werry bewtiful wife, of the name of _Yourridisee_, and they
was both werry appy, till one day, as she was a having a run in a
field, a norrid serpent bit her in her heel; so she died. Well, while
poor _Mr. Horfay_ is a telling us all about his trubbel, in comes a
werry bewtiful young lady with a pair of most bewtiful wings on, and
she werry kindly gives him a new sort of magic Fiddle, called, as I
was told, A Liar! to go to--go down to _you kno where_, to git his
wife back! Off he goes, and the neks sean shows us the werry plaice,
all filled with savidges, and demons, and snakes, and things; and
presently, when _Mr. Horfay_ is seen a cumming down, all the demons
and savidges runs at him to stop him; but he holds up the Liar, and
begins for to sing, and most bewtifully too, tho' I didn't kno the
tune; they all makes way for him, and he gos bang into lots of big
flames, and so I werry naterally thort as how it was all over. But
not a bit of it, for in the werry next sean we sees him with his Liar
in a most lovly garden, all full of most lovly flowers and trees, and
numbers of bewtiful ladies, a dancing and enjoying theirselves like
fun, until his Liar leads him rite up to his wife, and then he raps
harf his scarf round her, and off they gos together, both on 'em
dowtless a longing for a reel nupshal kiss, but poor _Mr. Horfay_ not
a daring for to look at her, becoz if he does before he gets her home,
she will be ded again direckly! Was there hever such a tanterlising
case ever known! When she sings to him to give her one loving look,
he sings to her to say he mustn't, until at larst she sets down on a
nice cumferel-looking sofy, as appens for to be in the werry middel of
the street, and says, werry artfully, as she carn't go not one step
farther, when in course he turns round, and rushes up to her to have
one fond embrace, and, thank goodness, they has it, and then she falls
back dead!

Well, now, I knos as I'm ony a mere Hed Waiter, and, therefore, not
xpected to have any werry fine feelings, like my betters has, but

I do declare that, when I saw this sad, sad end to all that grand
amount of reel true Love, the tears run down my cheeks like rain, and
I was a getting up to go away, when presently in came the lovly angel
again, whose name I was told was Love, and told him that such love
as his could conker Death itself; and she brort the pore wife to life
again, and all hended, as all things shood end, jovial, and cumferal,
and happy. What a wunderful thing is Music! It didn't seem at all
strange to me that not one single word was spoke all the heavening,
but ewery word sung, and in a forren tung, too, that I didn't
hunderstand, the bewtiful story kep my atention fixt the hole time,
and I warked home in the poring rain, werry thankful, and jest a
leetle prowd, that in one thing, at least, I was not xacly like BROWN,
who slept carm and content thro the hole of the larst hact.

ROBERT.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE FATE OF SALVATION ARMY GENERALS.

    "Each General is, by a deed of appointment, executed and
    placed in safe custody with certain formalities, &c."--_Gen.
    Booth's Letter to the Times, Nov._ 27.

This is dreadful! Why should the Generals be executed? What have they
done to deserve this cruel fate? And what is the use of placing them
in safe custody _after_ they have been executed? And what are the
"certain formalities"? We pause for a reply to all these questions.

       *       *       *       *       *

SEASONABLE.--CHRISTMAS IS COMING.--In the _Morning Post_, one day last
week, appeared an announcement to the effect that Madame NOËL had
left one residence in the West End for another in the same quarter.
Odd this, just now. But go where she will, _Le bon père_ NOËL will be
in London and the country on the 25th instant; so the best way is to
prepare to receive Father Christmas.

       *       *       *       *       *

SO-HO, THERE!--Some persons think that the proper place for "The
Pelican" ought still to be--the wilderness.

       *       *       *       *       *

NOVELTY.--Quartette for three players--"Whist! the Dumby Man!"

       *       *       *       *       *

EDUCATIONAL WORK (BY C.S. P-RN-LL).--_The Crammer's Guide to
Politics_.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: IRISH ACTORS IN AMERICA.]

       *       *       *       *       *

A DRESS DRAMA.

(BY A PERPLEXED PLAYWRIGHT.)

  I've got myself into a horrible mess,
    Of that there can be no manner of doubt,
  And my forehead is aching, because I've been making
    A desperate effort to get myself out,
  And I'm given away, so it seemeth to me,
  Like a threepenny vase with a pound of tea.

  I promised an actress to write her a play,
    With herself, of course, in the leading part,
  With abundance of bathos paraded as pathos,
    And a gallery death of a broken heart--
  It's a capital plan, I find, to try
  To arrange a part where the audience cry.

  So I quickly think of a beautiful plot,
    The interest ne'er for an instant flags;
  The sorrowful ending is almost heart-rending,
    As the heroine comes on in tatters and rags.
  It is better than aught I have thought of before,
  And will certainly run for a twelvemonth or more.

  Yet, alas! for my prospect of glory and gain,
    She has strangled my play at its moment of birth,
  For now she has written to say she is smitten
    With the newest designs and creations of WORTH,
  And to quote her own words--"As a matter of fact,
  I've a couple of costumes for every act."

  Then there follows a list of the things she has bought,
    Though I'm puzzled indeed as to what it may mean.
  She is painfully pat in her jargon of satin,
    Alpaca, nun's veiling, tulle, silk, grenadine,
  And she asks me to say if I honestly think
  She should die in pearl-grey, golden-brown, or shrimp-pink?

  So here I am left in this pitiful plight.
    With nothing but dresses, what _am_ I to do?
  For I haven't a notion what kind of emotion
    Is suited to coral or proper for blue;
  And if, when she faints, but they think she is dead,
  Old-gold or sea-green would be better than red.

  Will crushed strawberry do for an afternoon call?
    For the evening would salmon or olive be right?
  May a charming young fellow embrace her in yellow?
    Must she sorrow in black? Must I wed her in white?
  Till, dazed and bewildered, my eyesight grows dim,
  And my head, throbbing wildly, commences to swim.

  'Twere folly and madness to try any more,
    I know what I'll do--in a letter to-day
  I will just tell her plainly how utterly vainly
    I've striven and struggled to finish her play;
  And then--happy thought!--I will mildly suggest
  That she'll find for her purpose BUCHANAN the best.

  I shall now write a play without dresses at all,
    A plan, which I'm sure will be perfectly new.
  Yet opposed to convention, why merely the mention
    Of a thing so immodest will startle a few;
  And, although it's a pity, I shrewdly suspect
  The Lord Chamberlain might deem it right to object.

  Better still! from the French I will boldly convey
    What will be (in two senses) the talk of the town.
  You insist on a moral? Well, pray do not quarrel
    With the one that I now for your guidance lay down,
  That of excellent maxims this isn't the worst--
  _Let the play, not the dresses, be settled the first!_

       *       *       *       *       *

SOMETHING IN A NAME.--What a happily appropriate name for the Chief
Magistrate of so fashionable a watering-place as Brighton is Mr.
SOPER! Whether he is soft SOPER, or Hard SOPER, or Scented SOPER, it
matters not; it is only a pity that after his year of office, if the
Brightonian Bathers can spare him, he should not be transferred to
Windsor. Old Windsor SOPER--what a splendid title for the Mayor of the
Royal town! No doubt he will show himself active and energetic during
his Mayoralty, and that at Brighton henceforth a totally opposite
meaning from the ordinary one will be given to the description of a
speech as "a SOPER-ific." At east, it is 'oped so, for the sake of
SOPER.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: EXPERIENTIA DOCET.

"AND ARE _YOU_ GOING TO GIVE ME SOMETHING FOR MY BIRTHDAY, AUNTY
MAUD?"

"OF COURSE, DARLING."

"THEN _DON'T_ LET IT BE _SOMETHING USEFUL!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Tuesday Night, November 25_.--New Session opened
to-day. Remarkable gathering of Members in the Lords to hear Queen's
Speech read. Unusual excitement, though heroically restrained in
presence of LORD CHANCELLOR, supported on Woolsack by four figures
in red cloaks and cocked hats, borrowed for occasion from Madame
Tussaud's. HALSBURY lost his temper once when Commission being read.
Tussaud's man, sent down to work the figures--make them take off their
cocked hats and nod upon cue being given by Reading Clerk--was on
duty for first time; much interested in arrival of Commons at the Bar;
instead of lying low behind Woolsack and minding his business, kept
poking his head round to peer forth on scene. At last, LORD CHANCELLOR
in hoarse whisper threatened to send him to Clock Tower if he didn't
behave properly.

After this all went well; figures bringing their right elbow up with a
jerk, took off their hats at precisely right moment, and replaced them
without a hitch. They were labelled "Lord LATHOM," "Earl of COVENTRY,"
"Lord BROWNLOW," and "Lord KNUTSFORD." LORD CHANCELLOR sat in the
middle. The ladies on floor of House watched them with much interest.

"Such _dear_ old things," said one, when the figure labelled "Earl of
COVENTRY" cleverly pretended to sneeze. "I wish they'd do it all over
again; but I suppose the springs have run down."

In the Commons, everyone on the look out for PARNELL. What would he
do? Where would he sit? What would he say? Or, would he come at all?
Nobody knew. Some suspected last guess most probable. Towards Three
o'Clock whisper went round that he was here. SARK had seen him
crossing Lobby, with green spectacles and umbrella, and his hair died
crimson. Was now in room with Irish Party, arranging about Leadership.
Understood before House met that he was to retire from Leadership till
fumes from Divorce Court had passed away. Then alliance between Home
Rulers and Liberals would go on as before, and all would be well.
Ministerialists downcast at this prospect; Liberals chirpy; a great
difficulty avoided. Soon be in smooth water again.

Waiting in House for business to commence. SPEAKER away for cause that
saddens everyone; COURTNEY to take the Chair at Four o'Clock; meeting
of Irish Members still going forward. When business concluded, PARNELL
would quietly walk out; they would take their places, and things
would go on as if no one had ever heard of Eltham, of alarums and
excursions, of exits by fire-escapes, and entrances by back doors.

Thinking of these things, I was standing by Sergeant-at-Arms' chair;
heard a scuffling noise behind; looked round, and lo! there was
PARNELL entering House by Distinguished Strangers' Gallery, descending
by swarming down the end pillar, which supports Gallery from floor of
House.

"Good gracious!" I cried. "What are you doing?"

"I'm catching the last post," said PARNELL, smiling blandly, as,
reaching the floor, he unclasped arms and legs from the pillar and
quietly walked over to his ordinary place as if this were the usual
way of an Hon. Member approaching his seat.

Direful news rapidly spread. PARNELL not going to retire from
Leadership! On contrary, meant to stay, ignoring little events brought
to light in the Divorce Court. Ministerialists jubilant; Liberals
depressed; the whole situation changed; prospects of Liberal
supremacy, so certain yesterday, suddenly blighted; talk of Mr. G.
retiring from the fray; spoke on Address just now, but no fight
left in him; the Opposition wrung out like a damp cloth; even GEORGE
CAMPBELL dumb, and Dr. CLARK indefinitely postponed Amendment long
threatened. By ten o'clock the whole thing had flickered out. Address,
which of late has taken three weeks to pass, agreed to in three hours.

[Illustration: Up a Tree.]

Mr. G. went off as soon as OLD MORALITY had finished his modest
speech. Walked with him across the Park to Carlton Terrace. Haven't
seen him to speak to since Midlothian. What a change! Then elate,
confident, energetic, tingling with life to his finger-ends; to-night
shrunken, limp, despondent, almost heart-broken.

"Don't you think, Sir," I said, "that, after to-day's experience, Home
Rule has a new terror? You remember how, seven or eight years ago, the
Irish Members used to stand up in the House and personally vilify you.
Then, when you came round to their side, the very same men beslabbered
you with fulsome adulation. Now, when there is another parting of
the ways, when you pit yourself, your authority, and your character,
against their chosen Leader, they rudely turn their backs on you,
and tell you to mind your own business. How'll it be, do you think,
when you've finally served their purpose, and made possible the
accomplishment of their aim? When you have made them Masters in
Dublin, will they care any more for the views and prejudices of you
and your Liberal Party than they have done to-day?"

"TOBY, dear boy," said Mr. G., "you're a young dog yet. When you come
to my age, you'll have learned that there is no gratitude in politics.
But we won't talk of it any more. I'm a little tired to-night."

So we walked in silence up the steps, by the Duke of YORK's Column.

_Business done_.--Address agreed to. Mr. P. flouts Mr. G.

_Thursday_.--House up at twenty minutes to Six, having got through
rattling lot of business. Prince ARTHUR been sailing up and down
floor, bringing in Land Bills and Railway Bills. HICKS-BEACH depressed
with legacy of Tithes Bill.

"Cheer up, BEACH," says CRANBORNE, tugging at his moustache à la
GRANDOLPH; "you may depend upon me. Keep your eye on your young
friend, and he will pull you through."

"Thank you," said BEACH, with something more than his customary
effusive manner.

JACKSON toying round the table, packing and unpacking papers, looking
at his watch and the clock, vaguely whistling, and absently rubbing
his hands.

"What's the matter?" I asked. "You seem out of sorts."

[Illustration: Mr. P-rn-ll turns his Back on Public Opinion.]

"Matter!" he cried. "Why, twenty minutes to Six is the matter,
and here's all the work done and the House up. It's absolutely
demoralising; portends something uncanny. On Tuesday we got through
the Address in a single short sitting; yesterday, after meeting at
noon, had to adjourn for three hours and a half; filled up remainder
of time with bringing in Bills; To-day we have an Irish Land Bill
brought in and read a First Time, after a Debate confined to SAGE
OF QUEEN ANNE'S GATE, and WILFRID LAWSON. Nothing like it seen for
sixteen years. If this kind of thing goes on, you know, we'll get all
the work of the Session done in three months, and perhaps done better
than when it took nine. It's the suddenness that knocks me over, TOBY.
They ought to be more considerate, and begin more gently."

Great commotion in Irish circles. Scene slightly shifted. It seems
that Irish Members in re-electing PARNELL on Tuesday, thought he would
relieve them of difficulty by forthwith resigning. Mr. P. doesn't
take that view; thinks it would be rude, after having been unanimously
elected, to appear to undervalue such remarkable, spontaneous act of
confidence; doesn't care a rap for public opinion.

"_J'y suis, et j'y reste_," he says, smiling sweetly round the table,
where his friends forlornly sit.

"Begorra!" says Mr. O'KEEF, indignantly, "it's bad enough to have him
ruining us and the counthry, without using blasphaymious language."

_Business done_.--Everything on the paper.

[Illustration: "Bless-you-my-child!"]

_Friday Night_.--Louis JENNINGS made capital speech to-night on
Motion challenging commutation of certain perpetual pensions. Seems,
among other little jobs, we, the tax-payers of Great Britain, with
Income-tax at sixpence in the pound, have been paying pension of
£2,000 a year to descendant of the late ELLEN GWYNNE. Select Committee
appointed by present Government to consider whole matter, recommended
that no pension should be commuted at rate so high as twenty-seven
years' purchase. JOKIM, generous with other people's money, flies in
face of recommendation, and comfortably rounds off one or two of these
little jobs with gratuity of twenty-seven years' purchase. Cheerful to
hear this sort of thing denounced in breezy fashion from Conservative
Benches. JENNINGS, amid loud cheers, hits straight out from the
shoulder. WALTER FOSTER quite delighted. "Bless you, my child,"
he says, "you ought to belong to the Radical Party." _Business
done_.--Agreed that, up to Christmas, Government shall have all the
time.

       *       *       *       *       *

CHRISTMAS CARDS.--"Here we are again!" as they come tumbling in, fresh
from the hands of the publishers, HILDESHEIMER AND FAULKNER. More
artistic than ever!

       *       *       *       *       *

A NEW BANK OF ENGLAND NOTE.--"The force o' this 'ere observation lies
in the Barings of it."--_Cap'en Cuttle adapted_.

       *       *       *       *       *

PROBABLE PUBLICATION.--_Correct to a Shade_. (A book of ghostly
counsel.) By the Author of _Betrayed by a Shadow_.

       *       *       *       *       *

WORLDLY-WISE MOTTO FOR THE WRANGLERS ABOUT "DARKEST AFRICA."--"Keep it
Dark!"

       *       *       *       *       *

ANGLO-FRENCH MOTTO FOR A THOROUGHLY RAINY DAY.--"_Pour Toujours._"

       *       *       *       *       *

A JOURNALISTIC CITY.--Pressburg.

       *       *       *       *       *

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.