E-text prepared by Malcolm Farmer, William Flis, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team



Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
      file which includes the original illustrations.
      See 15594-h.htm or 15594-h.zip:
      (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/5/5/9/15594/15594-h/15594-h.htm)
      or
      (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/5/5/9/15594/15594-h.zip)





PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOL. 103

OCTOBER 22, 1892







IN MEMORIAM.

WILLIAM HARDWICK BRADBURY.

BORN, DEC. 3, 1832. DIED, OCT. 13, 1892.

  Large-hearted man, most loyal friend,
    Art thou too gone--too early lost?
    Our comrade true, our tireless host!
  Prompt to inspire, console, defend!
  Gone! Hearts with grateful memories stored
  Ache for thy loss round the old board.

  The well-loved board _he_ loved so well,
    His pride, his care, his ceaseless thought;
    To him with life-long memories fraught;
  For him invested with the spell
  O'er a glad present ever cast
  By solemn shadows of the past.

  That past for him, indeed, was filled
    With a proud spirit-retinue.
    Greatness long since his guest he knew.
  Whom THACKERAY's manly tones had thrilled;
  Who heard keen JERROLD's sparkling speech,
  And marked the genial grace of LEECH.

  What changes had he known, who sat
    With our four chiefs, of each fast friend!
    And must such _camaraderie_ end?
  Shall friendly counsel, cordial chat,
  Come nevermore again to us
  From lips with kindness tremulous?

  No more shall those blue eyes ray out
    Swift sympathy, or sudden mirth;
    That ever mobile mouth give birth
  To frolic whim, or friendly flout?
  Our hearts will miss thee to the end,
  Amphitryon generous, faithful friend!

  Miss thee? Alas! the void that's there
    No other form may hope to fill,
    For those who now with sorrow thrill
  In gazing on that vacant chair;
  Whither it seems he _must_ return,
  For whose warm hand-clasp yet we yearn.

  Tribute to genius all may give,
    Ours is the homage of the heart;
    For a friend lost our tears will start,
  Lost to our sight, yet who shall live,
  Whilst one who knew that bold frank face
  At the old board takes the old place.

  For those, his closer kin, whose home
    Is darkened by the shadow grey,
    What can respectful love but pray
  That consolation thither come
  In that most sacred soothing guise
  Which natural sorrow sanctifies.

  Bereavement's anguish to assuage
    Is a sore task that lies beyond
    The scope of friendship or most fond
  Affection's power. Yet may this page,
  True witness of our love and grief,
  To bowed hearts bring some scant relief!

       *       *       *       *       *

"ANECDOTAGE."

_COMPANION PARAGRAPH TO STORIES OF THE SAME KIND._

CURRAN, the celebrated Irish Patriot, was a man of intense wit and
humour. On one occasion he was discussing with RICHARD BRINSLEY
SHERIDAN the possibility of combining the interests of the two
countries under one Crown. "It is a difficult matter to arrange,"
observed the brilliant author of the _School for Scandal_, "Right you
are, darlint," acquiesced CURRAN, with the least taste of a brogue.
"But where are ye to find the spalpeens for it? Ye may wake so poor a
creature as a sow, but it takes a real gintleman to raise the rint!"
Then, with a twinkle in his eyes, "But, for all that, ma cruiskeen,
I'm not meself at all at all!"

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LAY OF A SUCCESSFUL ANGLER.

[Illustration]

  The dainty artificial fly
    Designed to catch the wily trout,
  Full loud _laudabunt alii_,
    And I will join, at times, no doubt,
  But yet my praise, without pretence,
  Is not from great experience.

  I talk as well as anyone
    About the different kinds of tackle,
  I praise the Gnat, the Olive Dun,
    Discuss the worth of wings and hackle;
  I've flies myself of each design,
  No book is better filled than mine.

  But when I reach the river's side
    Alone, for none of these I wish.
  No victim to a foolish pride.
    My object is to capture fish;
  Let me confess, then, since you ask it--
  A worm it is which fills my basket!

  O brown, unlovely, wriggling worm,
    On which with scorn the haughty look,
  It is thy fascinating squirm
    Which brings the fattest trout to book,
  From thee unable to refrain,
  Though flies are cast for him in vain!

  Deep gratitude to thee I feel,
    And then, perhaps, it's chiefly keen,
  When rival anglers view my creel,
    And straightway turn a jealous green;
  And, should they ask me--"What's your fly?"
  "A fancy pattern," I reply!

       *       *       *       *       *

SWORD AND PEN;

OR, THE RIVAL COMMANDERS.

(_EXTRACT FROM A MILITARY STORY OF THE NEAR FUTURE._)

Captain Pipeclay was perplexed when his Company refused to obey him.
He was considered a fairly good soldier, but not up to date. He might
know his drill, he might have read his _Queen's Regulations_, but he
had vague ideas of the power of the Press.

"You see, Sir," remonstrated his Colour-Sergeant; "if the rear rank
think they should stand fast when you give the command 'Open order!'
it is only a matter of opinion. You may be right, or you may be wrong.
Speaking for myself, I am inclined to fancy that the men are making a
mistake; but you can't always consider yourself omniscient."

"Sergeant," returned the officer, harshly; "it is not the business of
men to argue, but to obey."

"Pardon me again, Sir, but isn't that slightly old-fashioned? I know
that theoretically you have reason on your side; but then in these
days of the latter end of the nineteenth century, we must not he bound
too tightly to precedent."

The Captain bit his moustache for the fourth time, and then again gave
the order. But there was no response. The Company moved not a muscle.

"This is mutiny!" cried the officer. "I will break everyone of you.
I will put you all in the cells; and in the orderly room to-morrow
morning, we will soon see if there is such a thing as discipline."

"Discipline!" repeated the Sergeant. "Beg your pardon, Sir, but I
don't think the men understand what you mean. The word is not to be
found in the most recent dictionaries."

And certainly things seemed to be reaching a climax, for however much
the Commander might shout, not one of the rank and file stirred an
inch. It was at this moment that a cloaked figure approached the
parade-ground. The new-comer strode about with a bearing that
suggested one accustomed to receive obedience.

"What is the matter?" asked the Disguised One.

"I can't get my men to obey me," explained the Captain. "I have been
desiring them to take open order for the last ten minutes, and they
remain as they were."

"What have they to say in their defence?" was the inquiry of the Man
in the Cloak.

"He won't let us write to the newspapers!" was heard from the ranks.

"Is this really so?" asked the new-comer, in a tone more of sorrow
than of anger.

"Well, Sir," returned the Captain, "as it is a rule of the Service
that no communications shall be sent to the Press, I thought that--"

"You had no right to think, Sir!" was the sharp reply. "Are you so
ignorant that you do not know that it is a birth-right of a true-born
Briton to air his opinions in the organs of publicity? You will allow
the men to go to their quarters at once, that they may state their
grievances on paper. They are at perfect liberty to write what they
please, and they may rest assured that their communications will
escape the grave of the waste-paper basket."

Thus encouraged, the Company dismissed without further word of
command.

"And who may you be?" asked the Captain, with some bitterness. "Are
you the Commander-in-Chief?"

"I am one infinitely more powerful," was the reply. And then the
speaker threw off his disguise-cloak, and appeared in morning-dress.
"Behold in me the Editor of an influential Journal!"

A week later the Captain had sent in his papers, and every man in the
Company he had once commanded wore the stripe of a Lance Corporal. And
thus was the power of the Press once again sufficiently vindicated.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE BATTLE OF THE BARDS; OR, THE LISTS FOR THE LAURELS.

[Illustration]

PROEM.

  _Tan-ta-ra-ra-ra-ra!_ The trumpets blare!
  The rival Bards, wild-eyed, with windblown hair,
  And close-hugged harps, advance with fire-winged feet
  For the green Laureate Laurels to compete;
  The laurels vacant from the brows of him
  In whose fine light all lesser lustres dim.
  Tourney of Troubadours! The laurels lie
  On crimson velvet cushion couched on high,
  Whilst _Punch_, Lord-Warden of his country's fame,
  Attends the strains to hear, the victor-bard to name.

  And first advances, as by right supreme,
  With frosted locks adrift, and eyes a-dream,
  With quick short footfalls, and an arm a-swing,
  As to some cosmic rhythm heard to ring
  From Putney to Parnassus, a brief bard.
  (In stature, _not_ in song!) Though passion-scarred,
  Porphyrogenitus at least he looks;
  Haughty as one who rivalry scarce brooks;
  Unreminiscent now of youthful rage,
  Almost "respectable," and well-nigh sage,
  Dame GRUNDY owns her once redoubted foe,
  Whose polished paganry's erotic flow,
  And red anarchic wrath 'gainst priests, and kings,
  The virtues, and most other "proper" things,
  Once drew her frown where now her smile's bestowed.
  Such is the power of timely palinode!
  Soft twanged his lyre and loud his voice outrang,
  As the first Bard this moving measure sang:--

ON THE BAYS.

(_To the tune--more or less--of "In the Bay."_)

I.

  Beyond the bellowing onset of base war,
  Their latest wearer wendeth! With wild zest.
  Fulfilled of windy resonance, the rest
  Of the bard-mob must hotly joust and jar
  To win the wreath that he beyond the bar
  Bare not away athwart the bland sea's breast.

II.

  And sooth the soft sheen of that deathless bay
  Gleams glamorous! Amorous was I in my day,
  Clamorous were Gath's goose-critics. But my fire,
  Chastened from To-phet-fumes, burns purer, higher;
  My thoughts on courtier-wings _might_ make their way
  Did my brow bear the laurels all these desire.

III.

  For I, to the proprieties reconciled.
  Who hymned Dolores, sing the "weanling child."
  At "home-made treacle" I made mocking mirth;
  That was before my better self had birth.
  At virtue's lilies and languors then I smiled,
  But Hertha's _not_ thine only goddess, O Earth!

IV.

  For surely brother, and master, and lord, and king,
  Though vice's roses and raptures did not spring
  In thy poetic garden's trim parterre;
  Though thou wert fond of sunshine and sweet air,
  More than of kisses, that burn, and bite, and sting;
  Some living love our England for thee bare.

V.

  Thou, too, couldst sing about her sweet salt sea,
  And trumpet pæans loud to Liberty,
  With clamour of all applausive throats. Thy feet,
  Not wine-press red, yet left the flowers more sweet,
  From the pure passage of the god to be;
  And then couldst thunder praises of England's Fleet.

VI.

  I did not think to glorify gods and kings,
  Who scourged them ever with hate's sanguineous rods;
  But who with hope and faith may live at odds?
  And then these jingling jays with plume-plucked wings,
  Compete, and laureate laurels _are_ lovely things,
  Though crowing lyric lauders of kings and gods!

  Beshrew the blatant bleating of sheep-voiced mimes!
  True thunder shall strike dumb their chirping chimes.
  If there _be_ laureate laurels, or bays, or palms,
  In these red, Radical, revelling, riotous times,
  They should be the true bard's, though mid-age calms
  His revolutionary fierce rolling rhymes,
  Fulfilled with clamour and clangour and storm of--psalms

  That great lyre's golden echoes rolled away!
  Forth tripped another claimant of the bay.
  Trim, tittivated, tintinnabulant,
  His bosom aped the true Parnassian pant,
  As may a housemaid's leathern bellows mock
  The rock--whelmed Titan's breathings. He no shock
  Of bard-like shagginess shook to the breeze.
  A modern Cambrian Minstrel hopes to please
  By undishevelled dandy-daintiness,
  Whether of lays or locks, of rhymes or dress.
  Some bards pipe from Parnassus, some from Hermon;
  Room for the singer of the Sunday Sermon!
  His stimulant tepid tea, his theme a text,
  Carmarthen's cultured caroller comes next!

THE WORTH OF VERSE.

AIR--"_The Birth of Verse_."

  Wild thoughts which occupy the brain,
    Vague prophecies which fill the ear,
  Dim perturbation, precious pain,
    A gleam of hope, a chill of fear,--
  These vex the poet's spirit. Moral:--
  Have a shy at the Laureate Laurel!

  Some say no definite thought there is
    In my full flatulence of sound.
  Let National Observers quiz
    (H-NL-Y won't have it. I'll be bound!)
  Envy! _O trumpery, O MORRIS!_
  Could JUVENAL jealous be of HORACE?

  I know the chambers of my soul
    Are filled with laudatory airs,
  Such as the salaried bard should troll
    When he the Laureate laurels wears.
  And I am he who opened Hades,
  To harmless parsons and to ladies!

  For I _can_ "moralise my song"
    More palpably than Mr. POPE;
  And I can touch the toiling throng:
    There is small doubt of _that_, I hope.
  I've piped for him who ploughs the furrows,
  And stood for the Carmarthen Boroughs.

  I mayn't be strong, inspired, complete,
    But on the Liberal goose I'm sound.
  And I can count my (rhythmic) feet
    With any Pegasus around.
  I witch all women, and some men,
  GLADSTONE I've drawn, and written "_Gwen_."

  If these be not sufficient claims,
    The worth of Verse is vastly small.
  I've called him various pretty names,
    The honoured Master of us all;
  "His place is with the Immortals." Yes!
  But I could fill it _here_, I guess!

  His "chaste white Muse" could not object,
    For mine is white, and awfully chaste.
  Now ALGERNON has no respect
    For purity and public taste.
  EDWIN is given to allegory.
  Whilst ALFRED is a wicked Tory!!!

  He ceased. Great PUNCHIUS rubbed his eagle beak.
  And said, "I think we'll take the rest next week!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Experienced Sportsman_ (_on Pony_). "WELL--HAD GOOD
SPORT, FRED, OLD BOY?"

_Inexperienced Fred_. "NOT EXACTLY 'GOOD,'--BUT I THINK I'VE LET OFF
ABOUT A HUNDRED CARTRIDGES."

_Experienced Sportsman_. "NOT SO BAD. S'POSE YOU MUST HAVE 'LET OFF'
AN EQUAL NUMBER OF PARTRIDGES!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

IN A GHOST-SHOW.

    _Warlock's "Celebrated Ghost-Exhibition and Deceptio Visus"
    has pitched its tent for the night on a Village Green, and the
    thrilling Drama of "Maria Martin, or, The Murder in the Red
    Barn, in three long Acts, with unrivalled Spectral Effects and
    Illusions," is about to begin. The Dramatis Personæ are on the
    platform outside; the venerable Mr. MARTIN is exhorting the
    crowd to step up and witness his domestic tragedy, while the
    injured MARIA, is taking the twopences at the door; WILLIAM
    CORDER is finishing a pipe, and two of the Angelic Visions
    are dancing, in blue velveteen and silver braid, to the
    appropriate air of "The Bogie Man."_

INSIDE.

    _The front benches are occupied by Rustic Youths, who beguile
    the tedium of waiting by smoking short clays, and trying to
    pull off one another's caps._

_First Youth_ (_examining the decorative Shakspearian panels on the
proscenium._) They three old wimmin be a-pokin' o' that old nipper,
'ooever he be.

    [_The "old nipper" in question is, of course, MACBETH._

_Second Youth._ Luk up at that 'un tother side--it's a Gineral's
gho-ast a-frightenin' th' undertaker (_A subject from "Hamlet"_)
They've gi'en over dancin' outside--they'll be beginning soon. (_The
company descend the steps, and pass behind the scenes._) We shall see
proper 'ere, we shall.

    [_The Curtain draws up, and reveals a small stage, with an
    inclined sheet of glass in a heavy frame in front; behind this
    glass is the Cottage Home of MARIA MARTIN._

_Maria_ (_coming out of Cottage, and speaking in an inaudible tone_).
At last--WILLIAM CORDER--to make me his wife--I know not why--strange
misgiving 'as come over me.

[Illustration: "They catch one another's wrists, and walk up and down
together."]

    [_She is unfeelingly requested to speak up._

_William Corder_ (_whose villany is suggested at once by his wearing
a heavy silver double watch-chain, with two coins appended, and no
neck-tie--enters left_). Yes, MARIA, as I have promised, I will take
you to London, and make you my wife--but first meet me in disguise
to-night, and in secret, at the Red Barn.

    [_MARIA is understood to demur, but finally agrees to the
    rendezvous, and retires into the Cottage. Old Mr. MARTIN
    comes out in a black frock-coat, and a white waistcoat--he
    has no neck-tie either, but the omission, in his case, merely
    suggests a virtuous economy. He feebly objects to MARIA
    being married in London, but admits that, "Perhaps he has no
    right to interfere with WILLIAM's arrangements," and goes
    indoors again. WILLIAM retires, and the scene changes to a
    'very small street, which is presently invaded by a very large
    Comic Countryman, called "TIM," who is engaged to MARIA's
    sister NANNY._

_Tim_. They tell I, as how the streets o' Lunnon be paved wi' gold,
and I be goin' 'oop to make ma fortune, I be.

    [_NANNY comes in and bribes him to remain by the promise of
    "cold pudden with plenty of gravy." Comic business, during
    which every reference to "cold pudden" (and there are several)
    is received with roars of laughter. WILLIAM CORDER, on
    the ingenious plea that he wishes to take some flowers up
    to London, borrows a spade and pickaxe from TIM, to whom it
    appears he owes ninepence, which he promises--like the villain
    he is--to repay "the very next time he sees him in Church."_

_William_ (_going off with a flourish and a Shakspearian couplet_).
    My _mind's_ made up. Hence _all_ thoughts _that_ are good!
    Crimes _once_ commenced, _Must_. End in--blood! [_Act drop._

_A Female Spect._ They don't seem in no 'urry to come to th' Gho-ast
part, seemin'ly.

_Her Swain._ Ye wudn't have 'em do th' Gho-ast afoor th' Murder, wud
ye?

    ACT II.--_The interior of the Red Barn. WILLIAM _discovered
    digging MARIA's grave in his shirt-sleeves, and thereby
    revealing that his shirt-front is as false as his heart.
    He announces that "Nothing can shake him, now, from his
    pre-determined purpose," and that "the grave gapes for its
    coming victim."_

    _Enter MARIA, disguised in a brown bowler hat and a very
    tight suit of tweed "dittoes," in which she looks very like
    the "Male Impersonator" at a Music-hall. The Audience receive
    her with derision and the recommendation to go and get her
    hair cut._

_Maria_. Here am I in disguise at the Red Barn. And yet something
seems to whisper to me that danger is near. WILLIAM, where, _where_
are you?

_William_ (_coming out of a corner_). 'Ere, MARIA, 'ere! (_Aside._)
Now to 'url my victim to an early grave! (_Aloud._) 'Ave you obeyed my
instructions and avoided notice?

_Maria_. I have. Whenever I saw anyone approaching, I hid behind a
hedge and ducked in the ditch.

_William_ (_with sombre approval_). That was most discreet on your
part, MARIA. No one saw you come in, and no one will ever see you go
out. Be'old your open grave!

    [_After some pleading from MARIA, a desperate struggle takes
    place--that is, they catch one another's wrists, and walk up
    and down together. MARIA calls upon her Mother's spirit,
    whereupon a very youthful Angel is seen floating above the
    couple._

_The Female S._ (_triumphantly_). Theer now--theer ain't bin no murder
yet, and theer's th' Gho-ast sure enough!

_Swain_ (_who is not going to own that he is mistaken_). That ain't
naw Gho-ast!

_Female S._ What is it, then?

_Swain._ Why, it's the "De-cep-ti-o Vissus," as was wrote up outside.

    [_The Guardian Angel vanishes; WILLIAM _gets a spade, and
    aims at MARIA, who takes it away, and strikes him; he is
    then reduced to the pick-axe, but she wrests this from him
    too, and hits him in the face with it. He pulls her coat off,
    and her hair down--but she escapes from him a third time--on
    which he snatches up a pistol, and fires it._

_William_ (_with unreasonable surprise_). Great Evans! What 'ave I
done? I, am become a _Murderer_! The shot 'as taken effect! See,
she staggers this way! (_Which MARIA does, to die comfortably in
WILLIAM's arms_.) I 'ave slain the only woman who ever truly loved
me; and I know not whether I loved her most while living, or hate her
most now she's dead! (_The Curtain falls, leaving WILLIAM with this
nice point still unsolved, and the Audience profoundly unmoved by the
tragedy, and evidently longing for more of the Comic Countryman._)

    ACT III.--_Interior of Old MARTIN's Cottage. He attempts to
    forget his anxiety about his daughter--who he fears, with
    only too much reason, has come to an untimely end--by going to
    sleep in a highly uncomfortable position on a kitchen-chair.
    The Murder is re-enacted in a vision, in dumb-show. The form
    of MARIA appears in the tweed suit, and urges him to search
    for her remains in the Red Barn._

_Old Martin_ (_awaking_). I have 'ad a fearful dream, and I am under
the impression that MARIA has been foully murdered in the Red Barn.

    [_He calls the Comic Countryman to help him "to commence
    a thorough investigation"--which he does, in a spirit of
    rollicking fun befitting the occasion, as the Scene changes to
    the Red Barn._

_Old M._ (_finding the spade_). What's this? A spade--and, by its
appearance, it 'as recently been used, for there are marks of blood
upon it! I now begin to be afraid my dream will come true.

    [_Roars of laughter when the Comic C. discovers the body, and
    implores it to "say summat!" Change of Scene. WILLIAM CORDER
    discovered At Home, in a long perspective of pillars and
    curtains, ending in a lawn and fountain._

_William_ (_moodily_). 'Tis now exactly twelve months since MARIA
MARTIN was done to death by these 'ands. Since then, I have married a
young, rich, and beautiful wife--and yet I am not 'appy.

    [_Enter Old MARTIN, who, by the simple method of changing
    his hat and coat, has now become a Bow-street Officer; he puts
    questions to WILLIAM, who at once betrays himself, and has
    to be searched. As a pair of pistols exactly resembling one
    that was left in the Red Barn, are found in his coat-tail
    pockets; his guilt is conclusively proved, and he is led away.
    The next Scene shows him in the Condemned Cell, resolving to
    sleep away his few remaining hours on a kitchen-chair. He has
    a vision of MARIA in tweeds, who exhorts him to repent_.
    Old MARTIN, _who is now either the Governor of the Gaol or the
    Hangman, enters to conduct him to the scaffold, and on the way
    he is met--to the joy of the Audience--by the Comic, C.,
    who duns him for the ninepence. WILLIAM shakes his head
    solemnly, points to the skies, and passes on. The Comic C.
    then goes to sleep in a chair and has a vision on his own
    account, in which he beholds the apotheosis of MARIA--still
    in the suit of dittoes--and piloted by a couple of obviously
    overweighted Angels; and also the last moments of WILLIAM
    CORDER, who, as he stands under an enlarged "Punch"
    gibbet, pronounces the following impressive farewell before
    disappearing through a trap._

  Ye Youth, be warned by my Despair!
  Avoid bad women, false as they are fair. (_This is just a little
          hard on poor MARIA by-the-way._)
  Be wise in time, if you would shun my fate,
  For oh! how wretched is the man who's wise too late!

    [_And with this the Drama comes to an end, and the Comic
    Countryman begs the Audience to give the performance a good
    word to their friends outside._

       *       *       *       *       *

BETWEEN THE ACTS; OR, THE DRAMA IN LIQUOR.

    SCENE--_Refreshment Saloon at a London Theatre. A three-play
    bill forms the evening's entertainment. First Act over. Enter
    BROWN, JONES, and ROBINSON._

_Brown_. Well, really a very pleasant little piece. Quite amusing.
Yes; I think I will have a cup of coffee or a glass of lemonade. Too
soon after dinner for anything stronger.

_Jones_. Yes, and really, after laughing so much, one gets a thirst
for what they call light refreshments. I will have some ginger-beer.

_Robinson_. Well, I think I will stick to iced-water. You know the
Americans are very fond of that. They always take it at meal-times,
and really after that capital _équivoque_ one feels quite satisfied.
(_They are served by the Bar Attendant._) That was really very funny,
where he hides behind the door when she is not looking.

    [_Laughs at the recollection._

_Brown_. And when the uncle sits down upon the band-box and crushes
the canary-cage! [_Chuckles._

_Jones_. Most clever. But there goes the bell, and the Curtain will
be up directly. Rather clever, I am told. The _Rose of Rouen_--it
is founded on the life of _Joan of Arc_. I am rather fond of these
historical studies.

_Brown_. So am I. They are very interesting.

_Robinson_. Do you think so? Well, so far as I am concerned, I
prefer Melodrama. Judging from the title, _The Gory Hand_ should be
uncommonly good.

    [_Exeunt into Theatre. After a pause they return to the
    Refreshment Room._

_Brown_. Well, it is very clever; but I confess it beats me. (_To Bar
Attendant._) We will all take soda-water. No, thanks, quite neat, and
for these gentlemen too.

_Jones_. Well, I call it a most excellent psychological study.
However, wants a clear head to understand it. (_Sips his soda-water._)
I don't see how she can take the flag from the Bishop, and yet want to
marry the Englishman.

_Robinson_. Ah, but that was before the vision. If you think it over
carefully, you will see it was natural enough. Of course, you
must allow for the spirit of the period, and other surrounding
circumstances.

_Brown_. Are you going to stay for _The Gory Hand_?

_Jones_. Not I. I am tired of play-acting, and think we have had
enough of it.

_Robinson_. Well, I think I shall look in. I am rather fond of strong
scenes, and it should be good, to judge from the programme.

_Jones_. Well, we will "sit out." It's rather gruesome. Quite
different from the other plays.

_Robinson_. Well, I don't mind horrors--in fact, like them. There goes
the bell. So I am off. Wait until I come back.

_Brown_. That depends how long you are away. Ta, ta!

    [_Exit ROBINSON._

_Jones_. Now, how a fellow can enjoy a piece like that, I cannot
understand. It is full of murders, from the rise to the fall of the
Curtain.

_Brown_. Yes--but ROBINSON likes that sort of thing. You will see
by-and-by how the plot will affect him. It is rather jumpy, especially
at the end, when the severed head tells the story of the murder to the
assistant executioner. I would not see it again on any account.

_Jones_. No--it sent my Maiden Aunt in hysterics. However, it has the
merit of being short. (_Applause._) Ah, there it's over! Let's see
how ROBINSON likes it. That _tableau_ at the end, of the
starving-coastguardsman expiring under the rack, is perfectly awful!
(_Enter ROBINSON, staggering in._) Why, my boy, what's the matter?

_Brown_. You do look scared! Have something to drink? That will set it
all to-rights!

_Robinson_ (_with his eyes protruding from his head, from horror_).
Here, help! help! (_After a long shudder._) Brandy! Brandy I: Brandy!

    [_At all the places at the bar there is a general demand for
    alcohol._

_Brown_. Yes. IRVING was right; soda-water does very well for
SHAKSPEARE's histories, but when you come to a piece like _The Bells_,
you require supporting. [_Curtain and moral._

       *       *       *       *       *

"IN A WINTER (COVENT) GARDEN."

That indefatigable Showman, Sir DRURIOLANUS, the Invincible Knight,
commenced his Winter Operatic Season on Monday, the Tenth, at Covent
Garden, so as to be well in advance of Signor LAGO, who may now boast
of having _La Donna_, Her Most Gracious MAJESTY, for his patron.

_Monday Night_.--The two RAVOGLIS in good form in the _Orféo._
Likewise the Player of the Big Drum made more than one big hit during
the evening. "_Che farò_" was re-demanded. "Tired of '_Faro_,'" quoth
Mr. WAGGSTAFF--"why not make it '_Whisto_,' or some other game?"
_Exit_ WAGGY. The _Intermezzo_ of _Cavalleria Rusticana_ of course
encored enthusiastically. "Signor CREMONNINI," quoth WAGG, returning,
"is not half the 'ninny' his name implies." And, indeed, from the
moment he was heard singing "in his ambush" (as the Irish boy in the
Gallery said of TOM HOHLER at the Dublin Theatre when he heard the
_Trovatore's_ voice behind the scenes) before the rise of the Curtain,
everyone said, "This is the tenner for our money."

[Illustration: OPERATIC TACTICS.

_Sir Druriolanus_. "I Say, Bevignani, I think we've got the right
pitch, eh?"]

_Tuesday_.--The namesake of our own GEORGE AUGUSTUS, Mlle. ROSITA
SALA, made a real hit as _Leonora_ in _Il Trovatore_. "Handsome is as
handsome does," and Mlle. SALA didn't act as "handsome" as she looked.
Another "ninny" played to-night, namely GIANNINNI, all right vocally,
but not much dramatically. "_Il Balen_" was encored when sung by a
manly baritone with the feminine name of ANNA; i.e., Signor DE ANNA.
He might advantageously alter DE-ANNA to APOLLO, that is if he could
be sure of looking the part.

_Wednesday_.--_Lohengrin_. MELBA as _Elsa_. WAGGSTAFF tried to make
his usual pun on the name of _Ortruda_, but was "countered" by Young
JUMPER who protested that he had heard it before and never wanted to
hear it again. "I know what you're going to say," he exclaimed; "it's
something about '_aught ruder_!' I know!" "I've no doubt you do,"
returned the defrauded WAGGY, sarcastically, "for you're uncommonly
like _Othello_, 'Rude am I in speech'--only," added WAGGSTAFF, "_he_
apologised for it." Young JUMPER sniggered, his friends laughed, and
the incident terminated. The Chorus seemed to have become Wandering
Minstrels, so very uncertain were they.

Altogether, Sir DRURIOLANUS OPERATICUS, with his successful Drury Lane
Race-course, his Provincial Theatre, his Italian Opera, his Paper (not
_in_ the House, but his weekly one out of it), his Music-of-the-Future
Hall, for which a temporary and limited licence has been granted,
will--in a general-dealer kind of way--be having a good time of it
till Pantomime Season slaps him on the back with a cheery "Here we are
again!" and then he will have another and a better time. No doubt of
Sir Gus's success, or in abbreviated proverbial Latin, "_De Gus. non
disputandum_."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE HEIGHT OF EXCLUSIVENESS.

_Miss Prunes._ "AH, DOCTOR, THESE HIGH SCHOOLS ARE SADLY MIXED! BUT,
UNDER _MY_ CARE, I CAN ASSURE YOU THAT YOUR LITTLE WARD WILL ASSOCIATE
WITH DAUGHTERS OF _GENTLEMEN ONLY_!"

_The Doctor._ "THAT, MADAM, IS TO BE SELECT INDEED; SINCE I BELIEVE
PALLAS ATHENE ALONE FULFILLED SUCH A CONDITION."

(For pedigree of Pallas Athene vide Classical Dictionary--Art.
"Minerva.")]

       *       *       *       *       *

COLUMBUS.

[Illustration]

  COLUMBUS! We read of him every day,
    In books, pamphlets, magazines, papers;
  Whilst Italy, Portugal, Spain, U.S.A.,
    Cut constant, consecutive capers.

  They started last month with reviews on the main;
    On the land with processions--a quaint row.
  Such the fêtes, aptly called by the French "_Fêtes de Gènes_,"
    _Fait accompli_, good luck, _ça nous gêne trop!_

  But never say die; now Huelva goes on,
    New York follows, steady and sober,
  And Chicago makes ready for more derned, dog gone
    _Fêtes_ to last till, at least, next October!

  COLUMBUS, your search for a sort of New Cut
    Was meant for the best, we don't doubt it;
  No harm in discovering Continents, but
    You might have said nothing about it.

  Still, had you not found a location for clam,
    Canvas back, buckwheat cakes, we should sorter
  Have missed the acquaintance of 'cute Uncle SAM,
    And his fearless, free, fragile, fair daughter.

  COLUMBUS! The newspapers never will drop
    This subject; we wish, as months roll on,
  Some common bacillus had put a full stop
    Long ago to Don CHRISTOBAL COLON!

       *       *       *       *       *

"ANECDOTAGE."

_COMPANION PARAGRAPHS TO STORIES OF THE SAME KIND._

SIR WALTER SCOTT was never so well pleased as when meeting a brother
author. One day he passed by a gauger, who was so careless in
his duties that the author of _Waverley_ was able to smuggle into
Edinburgh some whiskey that was supposed never to have paid duty. On
reaching Abbotsford, "the Wizard of the North" was informed that he
had met one of the greatest poets of North Britain. "So I suspected,"
he replied. "It must have been BURNS." Sir WALTER was right--it _was_
BURNS.

       *       *       *       *       *

PITT, the younger, and FOX were both fond of port wine, and lost
no opportunity of indulging in their favourite beverage. Meeting at
CROCKFORD's one evening, PITT (being in straitened circumstances)
proposed that they should play for a bottle of sherry. "No," said
FOX, "if I must lose, I will lose in Claret!" and the rival Statesmen
succumbed to intoxication.

       *       *       *       *       *

WILBERFORCE, the well-known philanthropist, was accustomed to visit
the prisons. At Newgate one day he met a well-known forger, and asked
him "What he was in for?" "For the same reason that you are out," was
the smart, but uncourteous reply.

       *       *       *       *       *

NEW REGULATIONS FOR THE ENGLISH POLICE.

(_FREELY ADAPTED FROM THE IRISH RULES._)

[Illustration]

1. Constables who are required to interfere in a street-row must have
fourteen days' notice before they can be expected on the spot of the
disturbance.

2. Policemen will parade the streets from 12 A.M. to 4 P.M., but will
make themselves scarce in the event of meeting a party procession, or
noticing the holding of a public demonstration.

3. Hyde Park, Trafalgar Square, and all other fashionable
trysting-places, shall be considered without the sphere of Police
influence at times of political excitement.

4. Constables shall not congregate on land set apart for workmen's
gatherings, except to organise strikes amongst themselves.

5. The labours of the Police shall not commence before sunrise, or
continue after sunset; and it will be left to the sagacity of
the Public to guard their own property during the hours that the
Constables are off duty.

6. In the absence of the Civil Power, it will be considered contrary
to professional etiquette for any respectable member of the criminal
classes to carry on his unimpeded vocation.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE WHITE ELEPHANT.

PRESENT PROPRIETOR (_loq._). "SEE HERE, GOVERNOR! HE'S A
LIKELY-LOOKING ANIMAL,--BUT _I_ CAN'T MANAGE HIM! IF _YOU_ WON'T TAKE
HIM, I MUST LET HIM GO!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE GREAT UNKNOWN.

    [The Rev. Dr. SMYTHE PALMER, of Trinity College, Dublin,
    has just compiled a Book of Extracts, entitled _The Perfect
    Gentleman_.]

A Gentleman must be liberal, not to say lavish, to servants, porters,
gamekeepers, and others, or he is "no gent." At the same time the
Perfect Gentleman is never extravagant.

He must not work. At the same time he must not be an idler.

He is known by his scrupulous attention to the minutiæ of personal
appearance, while "despising all outside show."

The Perfect Gentleman "never wilfully hurts anybody." No soldier,
doctor, or schoolmaster can, therefore, ever be a P.G.

He is always perfectly open and frank. He is also sufficiently artful
to conceal the fact that he considers the person he is talking to a
mixture of a snob and a blockhead.

When his favourite corn is trodden on by a weighty stranger, he never
utters any expression stronger than "Dear me!"

He never loses his temper.

He must know how to treat everyone according to their rank and
situation in life, but show special courtesy to those who are his
inferiors.

He must be well-born, although there are plenty of "Nature's
Gentlemen" in the ranks of day-labourers.

He must be sufficiently wealthy to keep up a good position, while
recognising the fact that money has nothing to do with true gentility.

He should also try and remember that no such jumble of contradictions
as the Perfect Gentleman ever existed.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HIS BEST "SOOT."

_Short-tempered Gentleman in Black_ (_after violent collision with a
Stonemason fresh from work_). "NOW, I'LL ARSK YOU JEST TO LOOK AT THE
NARSTY BEASTLY MESS AS YOU'VE GONE AND MIDE ME IN! WHY, I'M SIMPLY
SMOTHERED IN SOME 'ORRID WHITE STUFF!! WHY DON'T YER BE MORE
CAREFUL!!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

EPIGRAMMATICALLY PUT.--An Asylums Board Manager wrote to the _Times_
to complain of Mr. LITTLER, M.P., Q.C.'s charges against the Asylums
and Fever Hospitals management. "Which is right, or which is wrong,"
to paraphrase _Mr. Mantalini's_ words, is no business just now of
ours, but the writer of the reply to the attack, might have summed up
by saying "that to _him_, Mr. LITTLER, whatever his Christian names
might be, appeared as a _Be-Littler_."

       *       *       *       *       *

"MR. GLADSTONE ON RENTS IN WALES."--What the Right Honble. Mr.
G. omitted to say, when speaking on this subject, was that "but
a comparatively small rent in Wales would be produced by
Disestablishment, whenever that event should happen, and that this
would soon be mended."

       *       *       *       *       *

TEMPERANCE RIDDLE.--Why is a man who is thoroughly good-natured and
ever ready to oblige, likely to end as a confirmed drunkard? Because
he is always _willing_.

       *       *       *       *       *

A USEFUL EXPERIENCE.

  I awoke at one in the morning,
    I had been two hours in bed,
  When--bang!--without any warning
    A joke came into my head.
  'Twas brilliant, awfully funny,
    It flashed through my drowsy brain,
  It was worth--oh, a lot of money!--
    I chuckled again and again.

  I thought how I might employ it,
    I laughed till the tears rolled down,
  Foreseeing how SMITH would enjoy it,
    And how it would tickle BROWN.
  I said, "I had best but hint it
    To _them_, or they might purloin
  This wonderful jest, then print it,
    And between them divide the coin."

  Late in the morn I awoke,--I
    Puzzled with all my might
  In vain to recall the joke I
    Made in the silent night.
  What _was_ it about? No dreamer
    Am I! No--I think--I frown--
  When next I make a screamer
    In bed--_I will write it down_.

  By the side of the bed a taper
    Shall ever with matches be,
  A pencil and piece of paper,
    To note what occurs to me.
         *       *       *       *       *
  Since then I have tried, but the late joke,
    As seen in my bedside scrawl,
  Is always so poor,--that the great joke,
    _I'm sure, was no joke at all!_

       *       *       *       *       *

YES OR NO?

    ["The hand-writing of well-educated Ladies is often
    disgracefully illegible."--_A Ladies' Journal_.]

  Oh, never did lover in fable
    In such a predicament stand,
  A letter I wrote to my MABEL,
    To ask for her heart and her hand,
  With compliments worded so nicely,
    A lifelong devotion I swore;
  She's answered--and left me precisely
          As wise as before!

  It is true that I begged, when inditing
    My note, a reply with all speed,
  And MABEL, to judge from the writing,
    Fulfilled my petition indeed!
  The drift of this scrawl, so erratic,
    I am wholly unable to guess--
  It may be refusal emphatic,
          Or can it be "Yes"?

  "Affection" she'll feel for me "ever,"
    But stay--if that blot is an "_n_"
  It turns it at once into "never,"
    Or is it a slip of the pen?
  Her heart will a "truant (or true?) be,"
    And what is the word just above?
  It looks like--it cannot be--"booby"!
          Perhaps it is "love."

  A meeting must needs be awaited
    To render these mysteries plain;
  Perhaps in this letter she's stated
    She never will see me again;
  On one thing at least I've decided;--
    Should she be my partner for life,
  A type-writer shall be provided
          For the use of my wife!

       *       *       *       *       *

THE GERMAN AND HORSE-TRYING RIDE.

    ["Most of the horses were standing, but propping themselves
    up against a wall or a post."--_Standard, Wednesday, October
    12th_.]

  Pity the sorrows of a worn-out horse,
    Whose trembling limbs support him 'gainst a wall;
  Who asks you,--fearing future trials worse--
    To kill him with a sudden shot,--that's all.

       *       *       *       *       *

A CORRESPONDENT signing "INNOCENTIA DOCET," wants to know if "the Hub
of the Universe" is an official appointment that can only be held by a
Mahommedan or a Mormon?

       *       *       *       *       *

CONVERSATIONAL HINTS TO YOUNG SHOOTERS.

(_BY MR. PUNCH'S OWN GROUSE IN THE GUN-ROOM._)

And, next, my gallant young Sportsmen, just sharpen up your attention,
and, if you have ears, prepare to lend them now. Be, in fact,
all ears. At any rate, get yourselves as near as possible to that
desirable condition, for we are going to discuss shooting-lunches, and
all that pertains to them. Think of it! Are not some of your happiest
memories, and your most delightful anticipations, bound up with
the mid-day meal, at which the anxieties and disappointments of the
morning, the birds you missed, the birds that, though they got up in
front of you, were shot by your jealous neighbour, the wiped-eyes,
the hands torn in the thorn-bushes, at which, as I say, all these
are forgotten, when you lay aside your gun, and sit down to your
short repose. Then it is that the talker shines supreme. All the
conversation which may have been broken in upon during the morning by
the necessity for posting yourself at the hot corner, or the grassy
ride, or in the butt, or for polishing off a right and left of
partridges, can then flow free and uninterrupted. Ah, happy moments,
when the bad shot becomes as the good, and all distinctions are
levelled! How well, how gratefully do I remember you! Still, in my
waking fancies, there rises to my nose a savoury odour, telling of
stew or hot-pot, and still the crisp succulence of the jam tartlet
has honour in my memory. Ah, _tempi passati, tempi passati_! But away,
fancy, and to our work, which is to speak of

SHOOTING-LUNCHES

in their relation to talk:--

(1.) Be extremely careful, unless you know exactly the ways of your
host with regard to his shooting-lunch, not to express to him before
lunch any very definite opinion as to what the best kind of lunch
is. If, for instance, you rashly declare that, for your own part, you
detest a solemn sit-down-in-a-farmhouse lunch, and that your ideal
is a sandwich, a biscuit and a nip out of a flask, and if you then
find yourself lunching off three courses at a comfortable table, why
you'll be in a bit of a hole. Consistency would prompt you to abstain,
appetite urges you to eat. What is a poor talker to do? Obviously, he
must get out somehow. Here is a suggested method. Begin by admiring
the room.

"By Jove, what a jolly little room this is. It's as spick and span as
a model dairy. I wish you'd take me on as your tenant, CHALMERS, when
you've got a vacancy."

CHALMERS will say, "It's not a bad little hole. Old Mrs. NUBBLES keeps
things wonderfully spruce. This is one of the cottages I built five
years ago."

There's your first move. Your next is as follows. Every rustic-cottage
contains gruesome china-ornaments and excruciating-cheap German-prints
of such subjects as "_The Tryst_" (always spelt "_The Trist_" on
the German print), "_The Saylor's Return," "The Warior's Dreem_,"
"_Napoleon at Arcola_," and so forth. Point to a china-ornament and
say, "I never knew cows in this part of the country were blue and
green." Then after you've exhausted the cow, milked her dry, so to
speak, you can take a turn at the engravings, and make a sly hit at
the taste in art generated by modern education. Hereupon, someone is
dead certain to chime in with the veteran grumble about farmers who
educate their children above their station by allowing their daughters
to learn to play the piano, and their sons to acquire the rudiments
of Latin: "Give you my word of honour, the farmers' daughters about
my uncle's place, get their dresses made by my aunt's dressmaker, and
thump out old WAGNER all day long." This horrible picture of rural
depravity will cause an animated discussion. When it is over, you can
say, "This is the very best Irish-stew I've ever tasted. I must get
your cook to give me the receipt."

"Ah, my boy," says CHALMERS, "you'll find there's nothing like a stew
out shooting."

"Of course," you say, "nothing can beat it, if you've got a nice room
to eat it in, and aren't pressed for time; but, if you've got no end
of ground to cover, and not much time to do it in, I can always manage
to do myself on a scrap of anything handy. Thanks, I don't mind if I
do have a chunk of cake, and a whitewash of sherry."

Thus you have fetched a compass--I fancy the phrase is correct--and
have wiped out the memory of your indiscretion. Of course the thing
may happen the other way round. You may have expressed a preference
for solid lunches, only to find yourself set down on a tuft of grass,
with a beef sandwich and a digestive biscuit. In that case you can
begin by declaring your delight in an open-air meal, go on to admire
the scenery, and end by expressing a certain amount of judicious
contempt for the Sybarite who cannot tear himself away from effeminate
luxuries, and the trick's done.

But this subject is so great, and has so many varieties, that we must
recur to it in our next.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: IN THE RUE DE LA PAIX.

_Hairdresser_. "SAY THEN, SARE ZAT YOU ARE RASÉ--SHAVE,--IS IT THAT I
SHALL CUT YOU OFF YOUR 'AIR?"

_Mr. Brown_ (_an old-fashioned Englishman, on his first Visit
to Paris--startled_). "HEY! WHAT! CUT MY HAIR OFF! NONG,
MOSSOO--COMPRENNY?--NONG! DO YOU THINK I WANT TO LOOK LIKE ONE OF YOUR
FRENCH POODLES?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

TO OUR GUERNSEY CORRESPONDENTS.

MR. PUNCH is sorry to find that his fancy sketch of a Guernsey Car
drive has been taken so seriously in some quarters as to give pain and
offence which were very far from being intended. He begs to assure the
honourable fraternity of Car-proprietors and drivers in the island,
that he did _not_ mean to suggest for a moment that there was the
slightest real danger to the public who patronise those highly popular
and excellently-conducted vehicles, or that any actual driver was
either intemperate or incompetent; and that, should such an impression
have been unfortunately produced--which he hopes is impossible--no one
would regret so unjust an aspersion more sincerely than _Mr. Punch_
himself.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE GOLFER'S DREAM.]

       *       *       *       *       *

LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.

_Mount Street, Grosvenor Square._

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Your marvellous judgment in the selection of your
"staff"--(I believe that is the correct term to use in speaking
of those who write for the paper, though as a rule a staff is
_wooden-headed_, which I am sure none of your contributors are!--I
can answer for _one_!)--has again placed you in the position
envied of all Journals, viz.,--(_why_ do people put "viz.," and
not "namely"?--it _is_ silly!) that of affording "information"
given by no other Journal! All of which preamble means,--(by
the way, why "pre-_amble_"?--if one is a speedy writer, why not
"pre-_canter_"?)--that _Punch_, in the person of LADY GAY--(that _may_
seem a little mixed, but it isn't)--was the _only_ Sporting Paper
which tipped the winner of the Cesarewitch!

For confirmation of this I refer the sceptical to my last week's
letter, in which I stated that in dreaming of the race I dreamt that
"_Burnaby came to the rescue_"--and if this is not giving the winner,
I should like to know what is! It is true I made _Brandy_ my "verse
selection," but that would only mislead the people who go no further
than the surface (not of the brandy), as anyone who gave the matter a
moment's thought would realise that Brandy is always applied _after_
a rescue! I hear there was a "ton of money" for the winner just before
the start, but I did not see anyone carrying it about, so I suppose it
was what they call "covering money," which, I presume, is covered over
for safety, as it would be risky to walk about a race-course with a
ton of loose money--not that I suppose anyone who goes racing would
touch it, but it _might_ be lost! Anyhow, there was a ton of money
for the winner _after_ the race, which his owner _had_ to take,
willy-nilly, or HOBSON's choice!

The pleasantest feature of the meeting, however, was the re-appearance
of H.R.H. the Prince of WALES, which was also pleasantly marked by one
of his horses winning a race! The Public having anxiously "watched"
for H.R.H., the success of _The Vigil_ was received with enthusiasm!

Next week takes us to Gatwick and Sandown--(or rather the _train_
takes us--another absurd expression)--the last day of the latter
Meeting being devoted to "Jumping Races," which is the contemptuous
way some people speak of the winter branch of our National
Sport!--forgetting that it demands the two most desirable qualities
in a horse, _speed and endurance_--whereas the modern flat-racing
has degenerated, for the most part, into scrambles and gambles, where
_speed_ is the only requisite!--but more of this anon--but _not_
anonymous, as I believe in signed articles, as the apprentice said!
(_Not_ BRADFORD!)

The most important race at Gatwick--(_delightful_ place to go
racing--lots of room to move about in)--is the Thousand Pound
Handicap, in which race _Brandy_ is worth keeping an eye on, as she
ought to beat _Burnaby_ at the difference in the weights--other horses
that might make their mark during the week--(especially now the ground
is soft)--are, _Pilot, Golden Garter_--(_I_ never was guilty of
such extravagance as that)--_Queen of Navarre_--(_she_ might have
been)--_Meadow Brown_, _Terror_, and _Seawall_, the last three in the
"Jumping Races"--and, in conclusion, the inevitable rhythmical winner,
from

Yours devotedly, LADY GAY.

ORLEANS NURSERY SELECTION.

  The man who would back any other
    Appears but a gander to be,
  For the horse that all comers will smother
    Is certainly _Tanderagee_!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: DIGNITY AND IMPUDENCE.

"I SAY, GUV'NER! WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO BE TOOK DOWN FOR HALTERATIONS
AND REPAIRS?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

MY SEASON TICKET.

  Ever against my breast,
  Safe in my pocket pressed,
  Ready at my behest,
    Daintily pretty
  Gilt-printed piece of leather,
  Though fair or foul the weather,
  Daily we go together
    Up to the City.
  Yet, as I ride at ease,
  Papers strewn on my knees,
  And I hear "Seasons, please!"
    Shouted in warning:
  Pockets I search in vain
  All through and through again;
  "Pray do not stop the train--
    Lost it this morning.
  No, I have not a card,
  Nor can I pay you, Guard--
  Truly my lot is hard,
    This is the reason,
  Now I recall to mind
  Changing my clothes, I find
  I left them all behind,--
    Money, cards, 'Season.'"

       *       *       *       *       *

WRITTEN A HUNDRED YEARS HENCE.

(_FROM A COLLECTION OF COMMUNICATIONS SUPPLIED BY OUR PROPHETIC
COMPILER._)

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Pray protect the Griffin! Those Goths and Vandals,
the Members of the Corporation of the City of London, will remove it,
unless you intervene. This beautiful work of Art, that stands on the
supposed site of the mythical Temple Bar, is to come down. What would
our ancestors say if they were here? Would they not frown at their
degenerate descendants? Every student of history knows that this
Griffin was put up by universal consent, and considered one of the
finest works of art of the nineteenth century. As, indeed, it was.
It is full of historic memories. It was here that WELLINGTON met
NAPOLEON after Waterloo; and here, again, was the Volunteer Movement
inaugurated, when Mr. Alderman WAT TYLER, putting himself at the
head of the citizens, called for "Three cheers for the Charter and
the Anti-Corn-Law League!" The beautiful bas-reliefs that used to
represent the occasions have disappeared, but their subjects are
tenderly cherished. If the Corporation _must_ pull down something, let
them destroy the recently-erected Mansion House! but spare, oh spare,
the Griffin!

Yours truly, A STUDENT OF THE LORE OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.

_The Palace, Brixton_.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--It is time for a protest! One of the most beautiful
erections of the nineteenth century (the old South Kensington Railway
Station of the District Railway) is to be removed! Instead of the
picturesque iron roof, we are to have some abomination in stone! Can
this be? It is said to be falling to pieces under the ravages of Time.
If this be really the case, why not let it be restored? There was no
more picturesque outcome from the nineteenth century than these pretty
arrangements in metal. The last generation swept them away by scores,
by hundreds, by thousands--they did not even spare the Brompton
Boilers! Let not such a reproach be applicable to us. We pride
ourselves upon our love of Art and veneration for the antique and the
beautiful, and yet we would pull down a building that for a century
has been the admiration of all with a soul for Art and a mind for
appreciating the sublimest efforts of genius in its highest sense!
This must not be.

_Burlington House_,

Yours truly, A ROYAL ACADEMICIAN.

_From_ 1 _to_ 1000, _Piccadilly._

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I have had the advantage of reading the above letters
before publication, and am of opinion that they are not one whit
more nonsensical than letters about the _Foudroyant_ and the Emmanuel
Hospital that were printed early in the nineties. You may make what
use you please of this communication.

Yours respectfully, THE SPIRIT OF THE PAST.

_The Earth (Branch Establishment, Mars and Jupiter)._

       *       *       *       *       *

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.