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PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 99.



November 1, 1890.




MODERN TYPES.

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

NO. XXI.--THE AVERAGE UNDERGRADUATE.

Those who live much in the society of the very middle-aged, hear from
them loud and frequent complaints of the decay of courtesy and the
general deterioration, both of manners and of habits, observable in
the young men of the day. With many portentous shakings of the head,
these grizzling censors inform those who care to listen to their
wailings, that in the time of their own youth it was understood to
be the duty of young men to be modest, considerate, generous in their
treatment of one another, and chivalrous in their behaviour to women.
And every one of them will probably suggest to his hearers that he was
intimately acquainted with at least one young man who fulfilled that
duty with a completeness and a perfection never since attained. Now,
however, they will declare, the case is different. Young men have
become selfish and arrogant. Their respect for age has vanished,
their behaviour to ladies is familiar and flippant, their style of
conversation is slangy and disreputable, they are wanting in all
proper reverence, they are pampered, luxurious, affected, foolish, and
disingenuous; unworthy, in short, to be mentioned in the same breath
with those who have preceded them, and have left to their degenerate
successors a brilliant but unavailing example of youthful conduct.
These diatribes may or may not be founded to some extent in truth.
At the best, however, their truth is only a half-truth. So long as
the world endures, it is probable that young men will have a large
allowance of follies, of affectations, of extravagances, and the young
men of to-day are certainly not without them. But, in the main, though
the task of comparison is difficult, they do not appear to be at all
inferior in manliness, in modesty of bearing, and in reverence to the
generations that have gone before. Here and there in London the antics
of some youth plunged into a torrent of folly before he had had time
even to think of being wise, excite the comments of the world. But
London is not the school to which one would look for youth at its
best. To find that in any considerable quantity one must travel either
to Cambridge or to Oxford, and inspect the average undergraduates, who
form the vast majority at both these Universities.

Now the Average Undergraduate, as he exists, and has for ages existed,
is not, perhaps, a very wise young man. Nor does he possess those
brilliant qualities which bring the Precocious Undergraduate to
premature ruin. He has his follies, but they are not very foolish; he
has his affectations, but they are innocent; he has his extravagances,
but they pass away, and leave him not very much the worse for the
experience. On the whole, however, he is a fine specimen of the young
Englishman--brave, manly, loyal, and upright. He is the salt of his
University, and an honour to the country that produces him.

The Average Undergraduate will have been an average schoolboy, not
afflicted with too great a love of classics or mathematics, and
gifted, unfortunately, with a fine contempt for modern languages. But
he will have taken an honourable part in all school-games, and will
have acquired through them not only vigorous health and strength,
but that tolerant and generous spirit of forbearance without which no
manly game can be carried on. These qualities he will carry with him
to the University which his father chooses for him, and to which he
himself looks forward rather as a home of liberty slightly tempered by
Proctors, than as a temple of learning, moderated by examiners.

During the October term which makes him a freshman, the Average
Undergraduate devotes a considerable time to mastering the etiquette
of his University and College. He learns that it is not customary to
shake hands with his friends more than twice in each term, once at
the beginning, and again at the end of the term. If he is a Cambridge
man, he will cut the tassel of his academical cap short; at Oxford
he will leave it long; but at both he will discover that sugar-tongs
are never used, and that the race of Dons exists merely to plague him
and his fellows with lectures, to which he pays small attention, with
enforced chapels, which he sometimes dares to cut, and, with general
disciplinary regulations, to which he considers it advisable to
submit, though he is never inclined to admit their necessity. He
becomes a member of his college boat-club, and learns that one of
the objects of a regular attendance at College Chapel is, to enable
the freshman to practise keeping his back straight. Similarly, Latin
Dictionaries and Greek Lexicons are, necessarily, bulky, since,
otherwise, they would be useless as seats on which the budding oarsman
may improve the length of his swing in the privacy of his own rooms.
These rooms are all furnished on the same pattern. A table, a pedestal
desk for writing, half-a-dozen ordinary chairs, a basket arm-chair,
perhaps a sofa, some photographs of school-groups, family photographs
in frames, a cup or two, won at the school athletic sports, a football
cap, and a few prints of popular pictures, complete the furniture and
decorations of the average College rooms. Of course there are, even
amongst undergraduates, wealthy æsthetes, who furnish their rooms
extravagantly--but the Average Undergraduate is not one of them.

On the fifth of November the freshman sallies forth only to find,
with a sense of bitter disappointment, that the rows between Town and
Gown are things of the past. He will have discovered ere this that
undergraduate etiquette has ordained that while he wears a cap and
gown he must forswear gloves, and leave his umbrella at home, even
though the rain should pour down in torrents. All these ordinances he
observes strictly, though he can neither be "hauled" nor "gated" for
setting them at defiance. Towards the end of his first term he begins
to realise more accurately the joys and privileges of University life,
he has formed his set, and more or less found his level, he has become
a connoisseur of cheap wine, he has with pain and labour learned to
smoke, he has certainly exceeded his allowance, and he returns to his
home with the firm conviction that he knows a great deal of life. He
will terrify his mother with tales of proctorial misadventures, and
will excite the suspicions of his father by the new brilliance of his
attire. Indeed it is a curious fact that whatever the special pursuit
of the Average Undergraduate may be, and whatever may be the calling
and profession of his father, the two are generally engaged in a
financial war. This always ends in the triumph of the older man, who
never scruples to use the power which the possession of the purse
gives him in order to discomfit his son. From a University point of
view, the average father has as little variety as the average son.

It must be noted that away from the University or his family circle,
and in the society of ladies, the Average Undergraduate is shy.
The wit that flashed so brilliantly in the College Debating Club
is extinguished, the stream of humour that flowed amidst shouts
of laughter in the Essay Society is frozen at its source, the
conversation that delighted the frequenters of his rooms is turned
into an irresponsive mumble. But as soon as he returns to the academic
groves, and knows that petticoats are absent, and that his own
beloved "blazer" is on his back, Richard is himself again. He has his
undergraduate heroes whom he worships blindly, hoping himself to be
some day a hero and worthy of worship. Moreover, there are in every
College traditions which cause the undergraduate who is a member of it
to believe that the men of that particular society are finer fellows
than the men of any other. These traditions the Average Undergraduate
holds as though they were articles of his religion.

The Average Undergraduate generally takes a respectable position
as a College oarsman or cricketer, though he may fail to attain to
the University Eight or to the Eleven. He passes his examinations
with effort, but still he passes them. He recks not of Honours. The
"poll" or the pass contents him. Sometimes he makes too much noise,
occasionally he dines too well. In London, too, his conduct during
vacations is perhaps a little exuberant, and he is often inclined to
treat the promenades at the Leicester Square Variety Palaces as though
he had purchased them. But, on the whole, he does but little harm
to himself and others. He is truthful and ingenuous, and although he
knows himself to be a man, he never tries to be a very old or a very
wicked one. In a word, he is wholesome. In the end he takes his degree
creditably enough. His years at the University have been years of pure
delight to him, and he will always look back to them as the happiest
of his life. He has not become very learned, but he will always be a
useful member of the community, and whether as barrister, clergyman,
country gentleman, or business man, he will show an example of manly
uprightness which his countrymen could ill afford to lose.

       *       *       *       *       *

FINIS.--The last nights on earth at the Haymarket are announced of
_A Village Priest_. May he rest in piece. The play that immediately
follows is, _Called Back_; naturally enough a revival, as the title
implies. But one thing is absolutely certain, and that is, that
_A Village Priest_ will never be _Called Back_. Perhaps _L'Abbé
Constantin_ may now have a chance. Eminently good, but not absolutely
saintly. Is there any chance of the _Abbé_ being "translated?"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE SMELLS.

(_EDGAR ALLAN POE "UP TO DATE."_)]

  I.

    Look on London with its Smells--
      Sickening Smells!
  What long nasal misery their nastiness foretells!
    How they trickle, trickle, trickle,
    On the air by day and night!
  While our thoraxes they tickle.
  Like the fumes from brass in pickle,
   Or from naphtha all alight;
  Making stench, stench, stench,
  In a worse than witch-broth drench,
  Of the muck-malodoration that so nauseously wells
    From the Smells, Smells, Smells, Smells,
      Smells, Smells, Smells--
  From the fuming and the spuming of the Smells.

  II.

    Sniff the fetid sewer Smells--
      Loathsome Smells!
  What a lot of typhoid their intensity foretells!
  Through the pleasant air of night,
    How they spread, a noxious blight!
    Full of bad bacterian motes,
      Quickening soon.
  What a lethal vapour floats
  To the foul Smell-fiend who glistens as he gloats
      On the boon.
    Oh, from subterranean cells
  What a gush of sewer-gas voluminously wells!
      How it swells!
      How it dwells
    In our houses! How it tells
    Of the folly that impels
    To the breeding and the speeding
    Of the Smells, Smells, Smells,
    Of the Smells, Smells, Smells, Smells,
      Smells, Smells, Smells--
  To the festering and the pestering of the Smells!

  III.

    See the Spectre of the Smells--
      London Smells!
  What a world of retrospect his tyranny compels!
    In the silence of the night
    How we muse on the old plight
  Of Kensington,--a Dismal Swamp, and lone!
    Still the old Swamp-Demon floats
    O'er the City, as our throats
      Have long known.
    And the people--ah, the people--
    Though as high as a church steeple
        They have gone
      For fresh air, that Demon's tolling
        In a muffled monotone
      Their doom, and rolling, rolling
        O'er the City overgrown.
      He is neither man nor woman,
      He is neither brute nor human,
        He's a Ghoul;
      Spectre King of Smells, he tolls,
      And he rolls, rolls, rolls.
        Rolls,
      With his cohort of Bad Smells!
      And his cruel bosom swells
      With the triumph of the Smells.
      Whose long tale the scribbler tells
      To the _Times, Times, Times_,
      Telling of "local" crimes
    In the gendering of the Smells,
        Of the Smells:
      To the _Times, Times, Times_,
      Telling of Railway crimes,
      In the fostering of Smells,--
      Of the Smells, Smells, Smells,
  Brick-field Smells, bone-boiling Smells,
      Whilst the Demon of old times
        With us dwells, dwells, dwells.
      The old Swamp Fiend of moist climes!
      See him rolling with his Smells--
      Awful Smells. Smells. Smells--
      See him prowling with his Smells,
      Horrid Smells, Smells, Smells--
  London Smells, Smells, Smells, Smells,
          Smells, Smells, Smells,--
  _Will_ the County Council free us from these Smells?

       *       *       *       *       *

JUST NOW THE CHIEF NILE-IST IN PARIS.--CLEOPATRA.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "ENFANT TERRIBLE."

"I'VE BROUGHT YOU A GLASS OF WINE, MR. PROFESSOR. _PLEASE_ DRINK IT."

"VAT? BEFORE TINNER? ACH, VY?"

"BECAUSE MUMMY SAYS YOU DRINK LIKE A FISH, AND I WANT TO SEE YOU--!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

SEEING THE STARS.

The following paragraph appears in the columns of the _Scottish
Leader_:--

    "Those who were out of doors in Edinburgh at three o'clock
    on Saturday morning were startled by the appearance of a
    brilliant meteorite in the northern hemisphere. Its advent
    was announced by a flash of light which illuminated the whole
    city. A long fiery streak marked its course, and remained
    visible for more than a minute. At first this streak was
    perfectly straight, but, after it had begun to fade, it broke
    into a zig-zag."

The phenomenon so graphically described, though remarkable, is not,
we believe, in the circumstances, entirely novel. Perhaps it is
noteworthy as coming a little early in the year. We understand that
on New Year's Day, "those who are out of doors in Edinburgh at three
o'clock in the morning," are not unfrequently startled in somewhat
similar manner.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE TOOTHERIES.--"TOOTH's Gallery" always strikes as a somewhat
misleading appellation. It always appears to have more to do with
palates than pictures, and to be more concerned with gums than gold
frames. No doubt the head of the firm of Messrs. ARTHUR TOOTH AND SONS
is a wise TOOTH, so let him christen his gallery the "Arthurnæum." He
is a TOOTH that you can_not_ stop, he is always coming out, and this
autumn he comes out stronger than ever with a most interesting and
varied collection. Excellent examples you may find of J.B. BURGESS,
J.C. HOOK, BASTIEN LEPAGE, TADEMA, VICAT COLE, PETER GRAHAM, MILLAIS,
LEADER, C. CALTHROP, MARCUS STONE, and other notables.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE MOAN OF THE MAIDEN.

(_AFTER TENNYSON._)

  Golf! Golf! Golf!
    By the side of the sounding sea;
  And I would that my ears had never
    Heard aught of the "links" and the "tee."

  Oh, well for the man of my heart,
    That he bets on the "holes" and the play
  Oh, well for the "caddie" that carries
    The "clubs," and earns his pay.

  He puts his red coat on,
    And he roams on the sandy hill;
  But oh for the touch of that golfer's hand,
    That the "niblick" wields with a will.

  Golf! Golf! Golf!
    Where the "bunkers" vex by the sea;
  But the days of Tennis and Croquet
    Will never come back to me!

       *       *       *       *       *

OYSTERITIES AT COLCHESTER.--Last Wednesday the Annual Oyster Feast
was held at Colchester. Toasts in plenty: music of course. But why
was there absent from the harmonious list so appropriate a glee as Sir
Henry Bishop's:--

  "Uprouse ye then,
  My merry merry men,
  It is our opening day!"

Why wasn't Deputy-Sheriff BEARD asked? Is he already shelved?

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LAST OF "MARY'S LAMB."

    ["A firm in Sydney have completed arrangements whereby frozen
    sheep or lambs can be delivered at any address in the United
    Kingdom."]

  Mary had a little lamb,
    Which she desired to send
  Across the mighty ocean as
    A present to a friend.

  That friend was partial to lamb chops,
    Likewise to devilled kidney;
  So friendly MARY promptly went
    Unto "a firm in Sydney."

  That firm replied, "the lamb we'll send
    By parcel to your cousin;
  That is, if you do not object
    To have your darling frozen."

  Then Mary wept. She said, "My lamb
    Has wool as white as snow;
  But packed in ice? It don't sound nice,
    No, Sydney Merchant, No!

  "Refrigerate my darling! Oh!
    It makes my bosom bleed.
  Still, go it must. I think you said,
    'Delivery guaranteed!'"

  So Mary's lamb the ocean crossed
    By "Frozen Parcel Post;"
  And Mary's Cousin said its chops
    Were most delicious--_most_!

  MORAL.

  Science, though it pays "cent. per cent.,"
    Is destitute of pity;
  And makes hash of the sentiment
    Dear to the Nursery ditty.

       *       *       *       *       *

ROBERT AS HUMPIRE.

I was a takin of my favrit walk, larst Friday was a week, from Charing
Cross round to my own privet residence in Queen street, when a yung
lad tapped me on the sholder and said to me, "Please, Sir, are you the
sillybrated Mr. ROBERT, the Citty Waiter?" In course I replied, "Yes,
most suttenly;" when he said, "Then this yere letter's for you, and
I wants a emediat arnser." Concealing my wisibel estonishment, I took
him hup Healy Place, where the werry famous Lawyer lives, as can git
you out of any amownt of trubbel, and then opened the letter, and read
the following most estonishing words, wiz.:--"Mr. ROBERT,--can you
come _immediately_ to the ---- Club, as you alone can decide a very
heavy wager that is now pending between two Noble Lords who are here
awaiting your arrival. You will be well paid for your trouble. The
Bearer will show you the way.--J.N." I coud learn nothink from my
jewwenile guide, so I told him to lead the way, and off we started,
and soon arived at the Club.

I need ardly say that, being all quite fust-rate swells, they receaved
me in the most kindest manner, and ewen smiled upon me most freely,
which in course I felt as a great complement.

One on 'em then adrest me sumwot as follers, "I'm sure, Mr. ROBERT,
we are all werry much obliged to you for coming so reddily at my
request." At which they all cried, "Here! here!" "You of coarse
understand what we wish you to do." To which I at once replide, "Quite
so, my noble swells." At which they all larfed quite lowd, tho' I'm
sure I don't kno why. He then said that it was thort better not to
menshun the names of any of the Gents present, and he then presented
me with a little packet, which he requested I woud not open till I got
home, and then proseeded to xplain the Wager, somthink like this. Two
of the noble Lords present, it apeared, had disagreed upon a certain
matter, and, wanting a Humpire of caracter and xperience to decide
between them, had both agreed to a surgestion that had bin made, that
of all the many men in London none coudn't be considered more fitter
for the post than Mr. ROBERT, the sillybrated Citty Waiter!

I rayther thinks as I blusht wisibly, and I knos as I bust out into
a perfuse prusperashun, but I didn't say a word, but pulled myself
together as I can ginerally do when I feels as it's necessary to
manetane my good charackter. He then said, "The question for you to
deside is this: At a great and most himportant Dinner that is about
to be held soon, at which most of the werry grandest swells left in
Lundon will be present, we intends to hinterduce 'The Loving Cup;'
not," he added, smiling, "so much to estonish the natives, as to
stagger the strangers. The question, therefore, that you, as the
leading Citty Waiter of the day, have to settle, is, How many of the
Gests stand up while one on 'em drinks?" Delighted to find how heasy
was my tarsk, I ansers, without a moment's hezzitation, "Three!" One
on 'em turned garstly pale, and shouted out, "What for?" To which I
replied, "One to take off and hold up the cover, the second to bow,
and drink out of the Cup, and the third to protect the Drinker while
he drinks, lest any ennemy should stab him in the back."

The garstly pale Gent wanted to arsk more questions, but the rest
shouted, "Horder! Horder!" and the fust Gent coming up to me again,
thanked me for what he called my kindness in cumming, so I made 'em my
very best bow, which I copied from a certain Poplar Prince, and took
my departure.

Being, I hopes, a man of strict werassity, I never wunce took ewen
so much as a peep at the little packet as the Gent gave me, but I
couldn't help feeling ewery now and then to see if it was quite safe,
which of course it was, and ewen when I reached my umbel abode, I
still restrained my natral curiossity, and sat down, and told my
wundrus tail to the wife of my buzzom, and then placed the little
packet in her estonished ands, which she hopened with a slite flutter,
and then perdoosed from it _Five Golden Souverings!_ If any other
noble swells wants another Humpire on the same libberal terms, let 'em
send to ROBERT.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: PHILOMELA AND AQUILA.

[It is stated that Madame PATTI presented Mr. GLADSTONE with a box of
voice lozenges.]

  PATTI, take, PATTI, take, Grand Old Man!
  Give him voice lozenges soon as you can.
  Pack them, address them, as neat as can be,
  And courteously hand them to W.G.!

  Mellifluous Nightingale, melody's source
  Our Golden (mouthed) Eagle hath grown a bit hoarse;
  But though Aquila's husky with age and long fights,
  His sweet Philomela will set him to-rights.

  A cough-drop, a lozenge, a jube-jube, from _you_,
  His larynx will strengthen and lubricate too.
  His old "_Camp Town Races_" he'll pipe again yet;
  Nay--who knows?--with you may arrange a duet!

  The eagle is scarcely a song-bird, but still,
  He may have a good ear for the nightingale's trill!
  Fair Philomel comes to old Aquila's aid!!!
  Faith! the picture is pretty, so here 'tis portrayed?
]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: CLEOPATRA IN PARIS. The true History. Queen Cleopatra
dying from the effects of several Bites of Asp-aragus. Or is it truer
that Queen Cleopatra died from eating too much of something "_En
Aspic_"? Ask Sardou, Sara, & Co.]

       *       *       *       *       *

AT THE ALHAMBRA.--_Claude Duval_, a new monologue, music by EDWARD
SOLOMON. Mr. FRANK CELLI has to "stand and deliver" the lines of
Messrs. BOWYER and MORTON. As the description "monologue" is not
suggestive of music, why didn't the authors invent a special name for
the entertainment, and call it the "Solomonologue"? Most expressive.

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE

_The Dead Man's Gift_, by HERBERT COMPTON; the title of which might
lead one to imagine something very weird and uncanny. Nothing of the
sort. Mr. COMPTON doesn't wish to "make your flesh creep" like the Fat
Boy in _Pickwick_. It is only the story of a tea-planter's romance,
though the finding of the gift is most exciting. Interesting and well
written.

_The Cabinet Portrait Gallery_, published by CASSELL & Co., with
portraits of most of our Celebrities, by Messrs. DOWNEY, is excellent.

[Illustration: "Blackie and Son."]

Christmas Books now make their appearance, and the first and principal
offenders in disturbing the Calendar are Messrs. BLACKIE & SON.
"Among the names," says the Baron's juvenile assistant Co. Junior,
"we recognise one of our boys' most favourite authors, G.A. HENTY, who
this year gives them another exciting historical tale, _By England's
Aid_, which deals with the closing events of the War of Independence
in Holland. Also _Maori and Settler_, a story of the New Zealand
War, when young England was quite a settler for the Maori. Both
recommended. _Hal Hungerford_, by J.R. HUTCHINSON, is a good book for
boys, and _A Rash Promise, or, Meg's Secret_ by CECILIA SELBY LOWNDES,
is an equally good one for girls, and finally _The Girls' Own Paper
Annual_, and _The Boys' Own Paper Annual_, are two very handsome
capitally illustrated gift-books." Now the Baron's cheerful assistants
have done their work, he himself, has something to say.

"No, my dear and venerable Mr. T. SIDNEY COOPER, R.A.," says the
Baron to that eminent octogenarian Academician, whose "reminiscences"
BENTLEY AND SON have just published; "if you are correctly quoted in
the _P.M.G._, your memory is absolutely at fault in describing DOUGLAS
JERROLD as 'Editor of _Punch_.' He never was. Your account of the
doings at the hebdomadal board of the _Punch_ Staff College must be
taken with several pinches of salt, as never once in your lengthy
career have you been present at any one of these symposia. No matter.
Your health, and book!"

[Illustration: A Cigarette-Maker's Romance.]

Permit the Baron to strongly recommend MARION CRAWFORD's _A
Cigarette-Maker's Romance_. Slight indeed is the plot, and few the
_dramatis personæ_: but the latter are drawn with a Meissonier-like
finish, and the simple tale is charmingly and touchingly told. The
wonder of it is that so little to tell should have occupied two
volumes; and a greater wonder remains, which is, that, at the close,
the reader should wish there were a third. To create this desire
is, after all, the very perfection of the art of novel-writing. The
novelist who does not make the reader "wish as there was more on it,"
according to the philosophic _dictum_ of _Sam Weller_ on the art of
epistolary correspondence, has failed. Henceforth this novel of Mr.
CRAWFORD's goes forth to the world with the Baron's best _imprimatur_.
This poor little cigarette-maker requires no puffing of her wares.
Enough that the Baron should say to his readers, "_Tolle lege!_" You
will be delighted with it, "_Il cigaretto per esser felice_." It is a
charming story, says emphatically,

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

       *       *       *       *       *

HOPE FOR THE EAST END OF LONDON UNDER THE NEW MAYORALTY.--If South
Kensington and the Fashionable West are now complaining of smells
everywhere in the S. and S.W. district, the City and the East End may,
for one year at least, rejoice in the supreme rule of the Savory. We
can't write of SAVORY without adding MOORE, so we must mention that
the name of SAVORY is ominous for the continuation of the Mayoralty.
The Guildhall Banquets end with a Savory. _Absit omen!_

       *       *       *       *       *

WINTER OPERA.

[Illustration: Our Maggie McIntyre as "La (Prima) Donna del 'Lago.'"]

Royal Italian Opera is quite a winter rose in Covent Garden. It
blossomed well, and is doing bloomingly. How lovely and of what happy
omen is the name of MARIA PERI, whose _Valentina_ in _Les Huguenots_
is worth recording, even though it does not beat the record. It is
said to be an uninteresting part, yet I remember everybody being
uncommonly enthusiastic about this same _Valentina_ when GRISI played
it, and _her_ "Valentine" was _Romeo_-like MARIO. Their struggle, his
Leap for Life out of the window after the great "_Tu M'ami_" solo and
duet, her despair, will never be forgotten. "Nothing in the part,"
quotha! Nothing in the person more likely. Signor PADILLA, excellent
actor, is here again. Signor INGENIO CORSI has been "lent" by Sheriff
AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS, and we hope he'll be returned safe, sound,
and unspoilt, carefully packed, "G uppermost," in time for the Royal
Italian Season. More nice names of good omen in the ballet, LOUISE
LOVEDAY,--hope she'll "love-night" as well, and be always ready to
dance,--and "JESSIE SMILES!"--does she! Bless her heart! Signor ARD
'ITTY, as 'ARRY would say, is the energetic "Conductor," so that
Signor LAGO's 'bus "full inside--all right!" ought to go along
pleasantly, and do well.

_Friday.--Lucia di Lammermoor_, with Mlle. STROMFELD in the title
_rôle_, singing well, and recalled several times by a fairly filled
house. Signor SUANE, the _Edgardo_, looking better than he sang. But
what a fine old crusted piece of Italianised conventionality the Opera
is, with about as much to do with Scotland as it has with SCOTT! From
the general demeanour and appearance of the Chorus of "Ladies and
Knights," and "Friends of Lord ASHTON," the ASHTONS evidently in a
very second-rate set at Lammermoor. However, it must be admitted that
their attitude, as spectators of _Lucia's_ delirium, left nothing to
desire on the score of repose--the VERE DE VERES themselves could
not have been calmer, or less concerned. Blue chins, and sympathy
expressed by semaphore action, in the good old time-honoured fashion.
The "Warriors of Ravenswood" in Lincoln green hunting costume, and
the tombs of _Edgardo's_ fathers under a marble colonnade--to give the
necessary local colour.

Good house on Saturday for _Robert the Devil_,--not _our_ "ROBERT" the
Waiter. But Signor LAGO must not be satisfied with things as they are.

       *       *       *       *       *

PROGRESS--FIN DE SIÈCLE!

1891. Vessels laid up by the Shipping Federation.

1892. The Railway Union decide to stop all traffic until labour is
cheaper.

1893. The United Cooperative Stores secure monopoly of Trade, and then
close until better times.

1894. Army and Navy disbanded, join the Burglar Association, of which
the Police are now members.

1895. Publication of newspapers throughout the civilised world,
suspended.

1896. Universal redistribution of land, and personal property.

1897. Conversion of every public building on the Four Quarters of the
Globe into a refuge for the indigent.

1898. Strike of the Butchers, the Bakers and the Candlestick-makers.

1899. Strike of the Doctors, and the Undertakers--_Fin de Siècle!_

1900. Strike of the Lawyers--_Fin du Monde!_

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE SPREAD OF CULTURE DOWNWARDS.

_Jones_ (_to Mrs. J._). "ESKIR VOO NE PONXAY PÂH KER LA NOOVELLE
FUM-DE-SHOMB AYT _EXTRARDINAIRMONG JOLEE_?"

_Mrs. J._ (_who is over-considerate of her Servants_). "WEE--MAIS IL
NE FO PÂH PARLY FRONXAY DEVONG LEY DOMESTEEK; CE N'AY PÂH _POLEE_, VOO
SAVVY!"

_The New Scotch Housemaid._ "OH, MONSIEUR, QUANT À ÇA, CE N'EST PAS LA
PEINE DE VOUS GÊNER DEVANT MOI. JE COMPRENDS ASSEZ BIEN LE FRANÇAIS!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

TIPPERARY JUNCTION.

JOHN MORLEY _SINGS_:--

AIR--"_TIPPERARY_."

  Oh, politics puzzle, and partisans vary,
    In holiday autumn on Albion's shore;
  But och! there's good business in New Tipperary,
    So to take a look round I will take a run o'er.
  Prince ARTHUR looks proud, but his policy's poor--
  No doubt, he'd be happy to show me the door;
  But the Paddies will welcome an English grandee--
  They've had SHAW-LEFEVRE, they'd rather have me!
    So I laugh at all fears of things going contrairey
    (She loves me, does ERIN, the shamrock-gowned fairy),
    I'm sure there's good business in New Tipperary!
            In New Tipperary!

ARTHUR BALFOUR _SINGS_:--

AIR--"_OFF TO PHILADELPHIA_."

    Faith! JOHN MORLEY thinks he's leary,
    And he's off to Tipperary;
  My policy he thinks he'll be a thorn in;
    But before he comes away
    He will find to spoil my play
  He must get up very early in the mornin'.
    Wid his bundle on his shoulder,
    He thinks no man could look boulder,
  And he's lavin' for Auld Ireland widout warnin'.
    For he lately took the notion
    For to cross the briny ocean,
  And to start for Tipperary in the mornin'.

JOHN MORLEY _SINGS_:--

AIR--"_TIPPERARY_."

  By St. Pathrick, I've hit on the thing I was after
    (Good luck, MORLEY dear, says O'BRIEN to me)
  My tale BALFOUR bould, will be no case for laughter,
    I'll leave ye no leg for to stand on, ye'll see.
  Of course you will say that my story's not true,
  But who will belave such a fellow as you?
  By Jingo, I've something to talk about now!
  I'll make ye to sit up and snort, that I vow!
    I'll give ye the facts, ye can't prove the contrairey.
    My story and CADDELL's will probably vary,
    But I've found good business in New Tipperary!
            In New Tipperary!

ARTHUR BALFOUR _SINGS_.--

AIR--"_OFF TO PHILADELPHIA_."

  When they tould me I must shpake a pace,
  I tried to kape a cheerful face,
    Though obvious lack of matther I was mournin'!
  But, oh sombre-faced JOHN MORLEY!
  Ye desired to help me surely,
    When ye went for Tipperary widout warnin'!
  Though your tale could scarce be boulder,
  Yet my hits straight from the shoulder
    Will make ye mourn the hour that ye were born in.
  And I think ye'll have a notion
  Ye were wrong to cross the ocean,
    And raise rucktions in ould Ireland in the mornin'!

JOHN MORLEY _SINGS_:--

AIR--"_TIPPERARY_."

  I may yet have to sail o'er the blue seas to-morrow,
    Once more sail away to the Isle o' the West,
  They yet may subpoena me, much to my sorrow,
    And then my strange tale will be put to the test.
  But BALFOUR shall find, when once more I come back,
  Of matter for speeches I shall have no lack.
  O'BRIEN and DILLON from judgment have flown,
  But with BALFOUR, I fancy, I'll still hold my own.
    That flight in the boat was a funny vagary,
    But the picture I'll paint will make SALISBURY scary,
    And set the bells ringing in New Tipperary!
            In New Tipperary!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: TIPPERARY JUNCTION.

RIGHT HON. A.B. "BLESS JOHN MORLEY,--_NOW_ I'VE GOT SOMETHING TO SAY!"

RIGHT HON. J.M. "BLESS ARTHUR BALFOUR,--_NOW_ I'VE GOT SOMETHING TO
TALK ABOUT!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

TO ENGELBERG AND BACK.

_BEING A FEW NOTES TAKEN EN ROUTE IN SEARCH OF A PERFECT CURE._

"Oh! he's ever so much better. Why he only had two stumbles, and one
cropper, doing his three hundred yards this morning. That beats the
record, anyhow."

Young JERRYMAN is describing the effect the Engelberg air is already
having on the Dilapidated One to several people, who have either been
invalided themselves, or have had invalid relatives, or met, seen, or
heard of invalids who have had similar satisfactory experiences.

"You know, I think the dining has a great deal to do with the
beneficent effects of the place," remarked, meekly, a mild-mannered
Clergyman, who, had been brought up here apparently to "get tone."
"You can't sit down to table with three hundred people," he continued,
meditatively; as if the solution of the social problem had caused him
some anxious thought, "without being inclined to launch out a little
more than one does under ordinary conditions at home. Only I wish
they wouldn't think it necessary to keep their dining-saloon at such
an excessive temperature, and waste quite so much time between the
different courses."

[Illustration: A Pleasant Little Excursion.]

And here the mild-mannered Clergyman had real ground for complaint;
for the German recipe for _table d'hôte_ dinner seems to be something
very much like the following:--Get a room that has been smoked in,
with closed and tightly-fastened windows and doors, all the morning.
Light the stove, if there is one, and turn on the gas, if there is
any. You begin your dinner. Take twice, thrice, or, even four times of
every course, glaring savagely and defiantly at your neighbour as you
pass the dish. Sit over each, allowing a good quarter of an hour for
its proper digestion, and keep this up till the perspiration drops
from your face. Finally, in about two hours' time, having carefully
mopped your forehead, quit the table for the "Conversations Saal."
Here (still keeping in gas and stove, if there is one) smoke till you
can't see six feet before you. Keep this up till you have had enough
of it, and feel the time is getting on for you to go through a
modified edition of the same process at supper. At least, this is how
the German element--a very formidable one at the Hôtel Titlis--for
the most part, conducted itself over the principal meal of the day.
There were, of course, exceptions, for all Germany is not essentially
German; yet it must be confessed that the prevailing features were
of this guzzling, and, for the want of a more descriptive word, I
would add, "sweltering" type, not fully appreciated by the ordinary
travelling Briton, who, whatever else he may be, is not a gross
feeder, though he does set the proper value on a breath of pure fresh
air.

"Get him up? Of course we can get him up," rejoined Dr. MELCHISIDEC,
warmly. This in answer to some doubts expressed by one of the more
cautions spirits of our party as to the possibility of dragging the
Dilapidated One over one of the stock excursions of the neighbourhood,
to wit, the Fürren Alp. "Why, put him into a _chaise à porteur_, and
we could get him up the Titlis itself, and throw in the Schlossstock,
and the Gross-Spannort, for the matter of that, as well. _Baedeker_
makes only a two and a half hours' affair of it."

And so we find ourselves in due course, doing the "Fürren-Alp" in
approved style.

"By Jove, I'll be hanged if I think it's a bit better than going up
Primrose Hill, twenty times running: and not near such good going
either," observes young JERRYMAN, after we have been struggling up a
precipitous mountain path, occasionally finding ourselves sliding and
slipping backwards in the bed of a disused watercourse, for about two
hours and a half.

And really I think young JERRYMAN's view of the matter is not so very
far out, after all.

       *       *       *       *       *

ONE RITE, AND ALL WRONG.--The "Service of Reconciliation" in St.
Paul's seems to have had the effect of setting everyone by the ears.
Quite a muddle,--a Western Church, and an Easton rite.

       *       *       *       *       *

SCIENCE AND HEART.

[Illustration]

    "A Correspondent of '_the Field_' records an experiment which
    he made with a wasp. 'Having,' he says, 'severed a wasp in two
    pieces, I found that the head and thorax with the uninjured
    wings retained full vitality.... It tried to fly, but
    evidently lacked the necessary balance through the loss of the
    abdomen. To test the matter further, I cut out an artificial
    tail from a piece of thin cardboard, as nearly following the
    shape of the natural body as possible. To fasten the appendage
    to the wasp, I used a little oxgall ...; gum or more sticky
    substances would not do, as it impedes the use of the wings
    in flight. Presently the operation was complete, and, to my
    surprise, the wasp, after one or two ineffectual efforts, flew
    in rather lopsided fashion to the window. It then buzzed about
    for at least a quarter of an hour, eventually flying out at
    the top ... it was vigorous when it flew away."--_Extract from
    an Evening Paper._

  The Benefit of Humour in    Philosophers can always do more
  Philosophy.                 Assisted by a sense of humour:
                              Witness the droll experiment
                              Of this same scientific gent.
                              For he, his frugal breakfast finishing,
                              (The eggs and bacon fast diminishing)
                              Noted how o'er his marmalade
                              A Wasp was buzzing undismayed.
  General Reflection:         We all are apt to be inhosp-
  Attitude of Man towards     Itable to the humble Wasp--
  the Wasp.                   That Ishmael of domestic insects,
                              The terror of the feminine sex!
  The Philosopher shares      And our Philosopher, though cool,
  the prevailing Prejudice.   Was no exception to the rule.
  His Method.                 He let it settle on his plate;
                              He poised a knife above--like Fate.
  The Blow falls.             Next--with a sudden flash it drops
                              Right on that unsuspecting Wopse!
                              Which, unprepared by previous omen,
  A Tragic Meeting.           Awestruck, confronts its own abdomen!
                              And sees its once attached tail-end dance
                              A brisk _pas-seul_ of independence!
                              A pang more bitter than before racks
  Dignified Behaviour of      That righteously indignant thorax,
  the Wopse.                  As proudly (yet with perfect taste)
                              It turns its back upon its waist,
                              And seeks, though life must all begin new,
                              "Business as usual" to continue!
  A Philosopher's Remorse.    The Man of Science felt his heart
                              Prick him with self-accusing smart,
                              To see that ineffectual torso
                              Go fluttering about the floor so;
  The Uses of a Scientific    A wasp for flight is too lopsided.
  Education.                  So, with remorsefulness acute,
  Reparation.                 He rigged it up a substitute;
                              Providing it a new posterior,
                              At least as good--if not superior.
  His Process.                He cut it out a tail of card,
                              And stuck it on with ox-gall, hard.
                              (This he prefers to vulgar glue)
                              And made that Wopse as good as new!
  Forgiveness.                Until the grateful insect soared
                              Away, with self-respect restored
                              To find that mutilated part of his
                              Had been so well replaced by artifice.
  Further proceedings of      The Scientist, again complacent,
  the Philosopher.            To pen and ink and paper hastened,
                              And, in a letter to the _Field_,
                              Told how the Wasp, though halved, was healed,
                              And how, despite a treatment rigorous,
                              It left consoled--and even vigorous!
  Moral.                      The Moral--here this poem stops--is
                              _'Tis ne'er too late for mending Wopses!_

       *       *       *       *       *

A "CUTTING" OBSERVATION.--This is from the _Daily Graphic_:--

    GENERALS.--TWO WANTED to do the work of a small house; £14-£18;
    for two in family; easy place, early dinners; very little company.

How sad! At how low an ebb has our Army arrived under recent
mal-administration! In time we may have even "Our Only General"
himself advertising for a place, or answering an advertisement like
the above. Not much "company drill"; so, if easy, it will be dull.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A SALE OF YEARLINGS.--THE VERY LAST OF THE SEASON.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A PERILOUS TUG OF WAR.]

    "The labouring men, as a class, are rapidly approaching to a
    footing of full equality with the capitalist, and it is even
    possible they may become the stronger of the two.... They
    must be content to have their class interests, whatever they
    are, judged in the light of the public interests.... Labour
    and capital may have separate interests, yet their separate
    interests are little, in the long run, as compared with those
    in which they are united."--_Mr. Gladstone at West Calder_.

  "_Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furled,_
  _In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world_":
  So the youthful Poet Laureate pictured it in limpid verse;
  Now the Federations fight each other! Better is't, or worse?
  See, the battle-flags are flying freely as on War's red field.
  And the rival hosts are lugging, straining--neither means to yield.
  For the war-drums, are they silent? Nay--they're not of parchment now,
  But, with printers' ink and paper, you can raise a loud tow-row;
  Be it at a Labour Congress, Masters' Meeting, Club, or Pub,
  Public _tympana_ are deafened with their ceaseless rub-a-dub!

  Tug of War! It _is_ a Tug, and not, alas! mere friendly war,
  As when rival muscles tussle, Highland lad or British tar,
  'Tis a furious fight _à outrance_, knitted, knotted each to each,
  Heels firm-planted, hands tense-clenching, till the knobby knuckles bleach.
  Federated Masters straggle, Federated Toilers strain,
  Each intent on selfish interest, each on individual gain,
  And a chasm yawns between them, and a gulf is close behind!
  What is the most likely issue of such conflict fierce and blind?
  Unionism 'gainst Free Labour, Capital against mere Toil!
  Is it better than two tigers fighting for some desert spoil?
  "Federate" the Libyan lions as against the elephant herds,
  Will the battle be less savage? Let us not be fooled by words!

  Say the tense-strained rope-strands sunder, say that either band prevail!
  Shall not "conquer" in the issue prove a Synonym for "fail"?
  "Banded Unions persecute," and Federated Money Bags
  Will not prove a jot or tittle juster. Fools! Haul down those flags!
  Competition is not conflict. So the Grand Old Casuist says,
  Speaking with the sager caution of his earlier calmer days.
  True! Athletic rivals straining at the tense tough-stranded rope,
  Strain in friendly competition, ruin not their aim or hope;
  But a lethal Tug of War 'twixt "federated" foemen blind.
  With a chasm at their feet, and each a yawning gulf behind,
  On a precipice precarious! Truly, too, a foolish fight!
  Rival Federated Wrongs will never further Common Right!

       *       *       *       *       *

"GIVE IT TO THE BARD!"

Mr. ROBERT INGERSOLL speaking of, and at, Poet WALT WHITMAN on the
occasion of presenting the aged and eccentric poet with the "long
contemplated testimonial," to quote _The Times_, said, that "W.W.
is intellectually hospitable"--this sounds like 'ready to take in
anybody'--"but he refuses to accept a creed merely because it is
wrinkled, old, and white-bearded. Hypocrisy wears a venerable look;
and relies on its mask to hide its stupidity and fear." Now this was
rather rough on the Bard, who is described as "an interesting figure,
with his long white hair falling over his shoulders." It seemed as if
ROBERT INGERSOLL wished to imply, Don't be taken in and accept W.W.
at his own poetic valuation as a poet, simply because he is wrinkled,
old, white-haired, and wears a venerable look, which, after all, may
be only a hypocritical mask? Mr. INGERSOLL couldn't have been more
infelicitous if he had "come to bury 'WHITMAN,' not to praise him."
Then he went on, "Neither does WHITMAN accept everything new." This
clearly excepted the testimonial, which, we may suppose, was brand
new, or at all events, had been so at some time or other, though
having been "long contemplated" it might have got a trifle dusty or
mouldy. Then finished the orator, magnificently, epigrammatically, and
emphatically, thus "He" (i.e., WALT WHITMAN) "wants truth." And with
all our heart and soul we reply, "We wish he may get it."

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS.--No. V., "_Mignon's Mess-Room_," will appear
in our next Number.

       *       *       *       *       *

EMPLOYMENT OF CAPITAL.

Sir,--In the _St. James's Gazette_ of Thursday week there was a
quotation from Mr. BUCHANAN's _Modern Review_, where, in support of
his opinions, he quotes "_Pope passim_." Whatever may be the outward
and visible form of Mr. BUCHANAN's religion, it is discourteous, at
least, even for an ultra-Presbyterian Scotchman, to spell the name of
a Pope without making the initial letter a capital, and it is unlike
a Scotchman not to make capital out of anything. Here, I may say, that
Mr. BUCHANAN's contributions to recent journalistic literature have
been mostly capital letters. But to return. Why POPE _passim_, and
not POPE _Passim_, or POPE PASSIM? Is it not mis-spelt? In vain have I
searched history for the name of this Pope. _Searchimus iterum_. But
I must protest, in the mean time, of this particularly mean way of
Bu-chananising a Roman Pontiff. Please accept this as a MEMO FROM
NEMO.

       *       *       *       *       *

SOMETHING IN A NAME.--"MOIR TOD STORMOUTH DARLING" (any other
names?) "Esq., Advocate, Q.C., H.M.'s Solicitor-General for
Scotland"--phew!--a good mouthful all this, almost as great as "JOHN
RICHARD THOMAS ALEXANDER DWYER," of _Rejected Addresses_--has been
elevated to the Scottish Judicial Bench. Good. The MOIR the Merrier!
TOD is the first half of Tod-dy which is the foundation of whiskey.
Your health, More Toddy! STOR-MOUTH is as good a mouth as any other,
whatever mouth may be chosen to store away more Toddy. And finally,
"DARLING" is a term sometimes lawful, rarely legal, of endearment, and
henceforth in Scotland STORMOUTH not "CHARLIE" is "our DARLING, our
gay Cavalier!"

       *       *       *       *       *

IN OUR GARDEN.

[Illustration: Illuminated 'A']

A very odd thing. Just as we had got into Our Garden, were, so to
speak, turning up our sleeves to hoe and dig, I have been called
away. It is Mr. G. who has done it. The other day the Member for Sark
and I were out weeding the walk--at least he was weeding, and I was
remarking to him on the healthfulness of out-door occupation, more
especially when pursued on the knees. Up comes the gardener with
something on a pitchfork. Thought at first it was a new development of
the polyanthus. (We are always growing strange things. The Member for
Sark says, "In Our Garden it is the unexpected that happens.") Turned
out to be a post-card. Our gardener is very careful to keep up our
new character. If the missive had been brought to us in the house, of
course it would have been served up on a plate. In the garden it is
appropriately handed about on a pitch-fork.

"My dear TOBY" (this is the post-card), "I'm just going up to
Edinburgh; another Midlothian Campaign; You have been with me every
time; don't desert me now; have something quite new and original to
say on the Irish Question; would like you to hear it. Perhaps you
never heard of Mitchelstown? Been looking up particulars. Mean to
tell the whole story. Will be nice and fresh; come quite a shock on
BALFOUR. Don't fail; Yours ever, W.E.G."

Didn't fail, and here I am, not in Our Garden, but in Edinburgh. Left
the Member for Sark in charge. A little uneasy; never know from day
to day what his well-meant but ill-directed energy may not achieve.
At least the celery will be safe. One day, after I had worn myself out
with watching gardener dig trench, Sark came along, and in our absence
filled it up. Said it looked untidy to have long hole like that
in respectable garden. Supposed we had been laying a drain; quite
surprised we weren't pleased, when he gleefully announced he had
filled it up.

Just come back from great meeting in Corn Exchange. Difficult to
realise that it's eleven years since Mr. G. here in first campaign.
A great deal happened in meantime, but enthusiasm just the same.
Mr. G. I suppose a trifle older, but ROSEBERY still boyish-looking.
Proceedings opened with procession of Delegates presenting addresses
to Mr. G. Excellently arranged; reflects great credit on PAT CAMPBELL.
(Capital name that for manager of variety _troupe_.) Leading idea was
to present imposing representation of Liberal Scotia doing homage
to its great chief. PAT caught on at once. Engaged thirty stalwart
men: none of your seedy sandwich-board fellows; responsible-looking
burghers of all ages and sizes. Got them together in room at left door
of stage--I mean of platform; free breakfast; oatmeal cake; unstinted
heather-honey and haddocks. Mr. G. seated in chair in very middle of
stage, the place, you know, where great tragedians insist upon dying.
Prompter's bell rings; Delegates file in, every man with what looks
like a red truncheon in right hand; advance slowly along front of
stage till reach chair where Mr. G. sits, apparently buried in deep
thought.

"What ho!" he cries, looking up with a start.

"My liege," says the sandwich-board man--I mean the Delegate, "I
bring hither the address of the Possilpark, Lambhill, Dykehead,
Camburnathen, Wishaw, Dalbeattie, Catrine, and Sorn Liberal and
Radical Association. Will I read it?"

"I think not," said ROSEBERY, quietly, but firmly, and the Delegate,
handing the red thing to Mr. G., passed on.

Mr. G. smiling and bowing; audience applauded; next man comes.
_He's_ from the Duntocher, Faifley, Slamannan, Cockpen, Pennicuik,
Clackmannan, Carnoustie, Kirkintilloch, and Lenzie Junior Liberal
Association. He also wants to read the Address, but is mercifully
hustled off, and the line, ever emerging from L. of stage, crosses,
and passes on. At other side, PAT CAMPBELL waiting; a little anxious
lest anything should go wrong to spoil his carefully-devised plan. But
everything went well.

"Get ye away now," PAT whispered in ear of the man from Possilpark,
&c.

Possilpark, &c., at the clue, darted round rear of stage; got round in
good time to L.; fell into line, and was ready to come on again. Same
with the rest. Immense success! At the end of first three-quarters
of an hour, PAT CAMPBELL arranged a block; pressure of innumerable
Delegates so great, doncha, couldn't move off the stage in time. This
gave opportunity for two of the stoutest burghers to go through quick
change; reappeared, dressed in kilts. This fairly fetched down house.

"The interminable procession," as ROSEBERY slyly called it, might have
gone on till now, so perfect were the arrangements. But there was some
talk of Mr. G. making a speech, and, at end of hour and fifty minutes
the last Delegate slowly crossed in front of delighted audience,
handed his red _bâton_ to Mr. G., who, though he had entered
thoroughly into the fun of the thing, was beginning to look a little
fagged, and the speaking began.

This was excellent, especially ROSEBERY's introduction of the
travelling Star; a model of terse, felicitous language. Only one hitch
here. Speaking of Mr. G.'s honoured age, he likened him to famous
Doge of Venice, "old DANDOLO." ROSEBERY very popular in Edinburgh. But
audience didn't like this; something like groan of horror ran along
crowded benches.

"Nae, nae," said one old gentleman, momentarily taking his knees out
of the small of my back, "that winna do. 'Auld WULLIE' is weel enoo,
but to ca' a man Auld DANDOLO to his face gars me greet." (Often met
with this phrase in songs and Scotch novels: curious to see how it was
done; fancy, from what followed, it's Scotch for taking snuff.)

Barring this slip, everything went well. GLADSTONE delightful. So
fresh, so informing, and so instructive! Began with lucid account
of Battle of Waterloo; lightly sketched the state of parties at the
period of the Reform agitation in 1832; glanced in passing at the
regrettable conflict between the Northern and Southern States of
America ("sons of one mother" as he pathetically put it); and so
glided easily and naturally into a detailed account of the _mêlée_
at Mitchelstown, which, as he incidentally mentioned, took place four
years and a half ago.

Audience sat entranced. You might have heard a pin drop, if indeed
you wanted to. I wish the Member for Sark had been here to hear it.
He would have been much more usefully employed than in that hopeless
pursuit to which he has given himself up, the growing of the peelless
potato. He'll never do it.

       *       *       *       *       *

CORNWALL IN BAKER STREET.--The worst of Cornwall is, it is so far
off--indeed, it has hitherto been quite out of sight. Everything comes
to him who knows how to wait. We waited, and Mr. JOHN HOLLINGSHEAD
brought Niagara to Westminster. We waited again, and Mr. ARTHUR VOKINS
brings Cornwall to Baker Street, and introduces us to a very clever
young sea-scapist, Mr. A. WARNE-BROWNE--altogether a misnomer, for he
isn't a worn brown at all, he is as fresh and bright and sharp as a
newly-minted sovereign. Go and look at his "_Lizard and Stags_"--he
isn't an animal-painter, though the title looks like it--his
"_Breaking Weather_," his "_Rain Veils_," his "_Innis Head_," or
any one of his thirty pictures, and say if you don't agree with _Mr.
Punch_. The whole of them are so true to Nature, are so faithful
in their wave-drawing, there is such a breeziness, such a saltness
pervades them throughout, and they so accurately convey the character
of the Cornish coast, that _Mr. P._ felt quite the Cornishman, and
is unable to decide whether he is the Tre Punch or the Pol Punch.
On mature deliberation, he concludes he is the Pen Punch. There's no
doubt about _that_!

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THE WELL "PROTECTED" FEMALE.--Mrs. COLUMBIA.

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