PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 103.

NOVEMBER 12, 1892.




THE GAME OF THE LITTLE HORSES.

(_A SKETCH AT THE CASINO, DINARD._)


    _On either side of the circular Race-course, with its
    revolving metal horses, is a Green Table, divided into
    numbered squares, around which the Players, who are mostly
    English, are sitting or standing. A Croupier with his rake
    presides at each table. In an obscure corner of the balcony
    outside_, Miss DAINTREE _and her_ Married Sister _have just
    established themselves. There is a Ball at the Casino, and the
    Orchestra are heard tuning up for the next dance._

_The Married Sister._ But SYLVIA, why have you dragged me out here to
sit in the dark? I thought you were engaged for this?

_Miss Daintree._ So I am—to such a horrid little man. That’s why I
fled. He won’t think of coming _here_ after me!

_The M.S._ What made you give him a dance at all?

_Miss D._ JACK brought him up to me—so naturally I thought he was
a dear friend of his, but it seems he only sat next to him at _table
d’hôte_, and JACK says he pestered him so for an introduction, he
_had_ to do it—to get rid of him. So like a brother, wasn’t it?...
Oh, AMY, he’s _coming_—what _shall_ I do? I know he can’t dance a
little bit! I watched him trying.

_The M.S._ Can’t you ask him to sit it out?

_Miss D._ That’s _worse_! Let’s hope he won’t notice us.—Ah—he
_has_!

[Illustration: “Our dance, I believe?”]

    [Mr. CUBSON, _a podgy young man with small eyes and a scrubby
    moustache, wearing a tailless evening-coat and a wrinkled
    white waistcoat, advances._

_Mr. Cubson._ Our dance, I believe? (_The Orchestra strikes up._)
Isn’t that the _Pas de Quatre?_ To tell you the truth, I’m not
very well up in these new steps, so I shall trust to you to pull me
through—soon get into it, y’know.

_Miss D._ (_to herself_). If I could only get _out_ of it! (_She
rises with a look of mute appeal to her_ Sister.) We can go through
this room. (_They pass into the Salle des Petits Chevaux._) Stop one
minute—I just want to see which horse wins. Don’t you call this a
fascinating game?

_Mr. C._ Well, I don’t understand the way they play it here—too
complicated for _me_, you know!

_Miss D._ (_to herself_). Anything to gain time! (_Aloud._) Oh, it’s
quite simple—you just put your money down on any number you choose,
and say “_Sur le_”—whatever it is, and, if it wins, you get seven
times your stake.

_Croupier._ Tous sont payés—faites vos jeux, Messieurs,—les jeux
sont partis!

_Miss D._ I know what I should do—I should back 7 this time. I’ve a
presentiment he’ll win.

_Mr. C._ Then why don’t you back him?

_Miss D._ Because I don’t happen to have brought any money with me.

_Mr. C._ Oh, I daresay I can accommodate you with a franc or two, if
that’s all.

_Miss D._ Thank you, I won’t trouble you: but do back him yourself,
just to see if I’m not right.

_Croupier._ Les jeux sont faits. Rien ne va plus!

_Mr. C._ (_throwing a franc on the table_). Sur le sept! (_To_ Miss
D.) I say, he’s raked it in. What’_s that_ for?

_Miss D._ For the Bank, or Charity, or something—they always do that
if you stake too late.

_Mr. C._ Swindle, _I_ call it. And I should have won, too—it _is_ 7.
I’ve had enough of this—suppose we go and dance?

_Miss D._ Why, you’re not going to give in already—after so nearly
winning, too?

_Mr. C._ Ah, well, I’ll have just one more go—and then we’ll be off.
I’m going to try the 9 this time. [_He stakes._

_Miss D. I_ should have gone on the 4—it’s time one of the even
numbers won again.

_Mr. C._ Oh, would you? All right, then. (_To_ Cr.) Pas sur le
neuf—le quatre. (_The_ Croupier _transfers the franc to 4._) They’re
off—can’t tell the winner yet. Now they’re slower—4’s good—4’s very
good. See where he’s stopped, not an inch from the post! This isn’t
half a bad game.

    [_A horse with a red flag at his head, labelled No. 9, creeps
    slowly up, and stops just ahead of 4._

_Croupier._ Neuf, impair, et rouge!

_Mr. C._ It’s 9 after all—and I backed him first. (_In an injured
tone._) I should have _won_ if you hadn’t said that about 4!

_Miss D._ (_with secret delight_). I won’t advise any more. What are
you going to back?

_Mr. C._ We really ought to be dancing—but I’ll try my luck once more
on No. 4. I shall put on _two_ francs this time.

_Miss D._ Shall you? How reckless! I heard someone say just now that
No. 1 hasn’t won for a long time.

_Mr. C._ I took your advice once too often. There—4’s going to
win—see how he’s going round—no, he’s passed.

    [_A horse with a yellow flag, labelled No. 1, stops close to
    the post._

_Croupier._ L’As, impair, et jaune!

_Miss D._ Didn’t I tell you so?

_Mr. C._ You only said _I hadn’t_ won—not that he _would_. If you had
spoken more plainly—! I don’t think much of _this_ game—I’ve dropped
four francs already. How about that dance?

_Miss D._ (_ironically_). It would be rather a pity to go away without
getting all that money back, wouldn’t it?

_Mr. C._ (_seriously_). Perhaps it would. You’re sure you’re in no
hurry about this dance?

_Miss D._ On the contrary!

_Mr. C._ Well, look here, I’m going to put on a five-franc piece this
time—so be careful what you advise.

_Miss D._ Oh, I really couldn’t undertake such a responsibility.

_Mr. C._ I shall follow this man then, and back five. (_He does; the
horses spin round, and the race is won by a horse with a tricoloured
flag labelled No. 5._) There, I’ve done it without you, you see.
(_The_ Croupier _pushes a heap of ivory counters towards him, which
he takes up with trembling hands._) I say, I scooped in thirty-five
francs over that! Not bad, is it? I’m glad I waited!

_Miss D._ Yes, it’s better fun than dancing, isn’t it?

_Mr. C._ Oh, lots—at least I didn’t mean _that_ quite—

_Miss D._ Didn’t you? _I_ did. What are you going to back next?

_Mr. C._ Well, I must just have one more turn, and then we’ll go and
get that dance over. I’m going to plunge this time. (_He spreads his
counters about the board._) There, I’ve put five francs on each colour
and ten each on 8 and 9. You see, by hedging like that, you’re bound
to pull off _something_!

_Miss D._ (_as the horses spin round_). All the yellow flags are out
of it.

_Mr. C._ Doesn’t matter, 9’s red, and he’s going first-rate—nothing
to beat him!

_Miss D._ Unless it’s 5, and then you lose. (_No._ 5 _wins again._)
How unfortunate for you. 5 generally _does_ win twice running,
somehow.

_Mr. C._ (_with reproach_). If you had thought of that a little
sooner, I shouldn’t have lost twenty francs! (_A player rises, and_
Mr. C. _secures the vacant chair._) More comfortable sitting down. I
must get that back before I go. I’ve got about twenty francs left,
I’ll put five on yellow, and ten on 9. (_He does._ Croupier. “_Deux,
pair, et rouge!_”) Only five left! I’ll back yellow again, as red won
last. (_He does._ Croupier. “_Quatre, pair, et rouge!_” _He turns to_
Miss D. _for sympathy._) I say, did you ever see such beastly bad—?
_A Frenchman_ (_behind him_). Plaît-il? _Mr. C._ (_confused_). Oh,
rien. I wasn’t speaking to _you_, M’soo. (_To himself._) Where
on earth has that girl got to? She might have waited! She’s gone
back to the balcony! (_He goes out in pursuit of her._) Oh, I say,
Miss—er—DAINTREE, if you’re ready for that “_Pas de Quatre_,” I am.
Hope I haven’t kept you waiting.

_Miss D._ (_sweetly_). Not’ in the very least. Are you sure you’ve
_quite_ finished playing?

_Mr. C._ As I’ve lost all I’d won and a lot on the top of that, I
should rather think I _had_ finished playing.

_Miss D._ So has the Orchestra—quite a coincidence, isn’t it? You
were so absorbed, you see!—No, I won’t keep you out here, thanks; my
sister will take care of me.

_Mr. C._ (_to himself, as he departs rather sheepishly_). I’ve
_offended_ that girl—I could see she was wild at missing that Barn
Dance. I wish I _had_ danced it, I’m sure,—it would have saved me
several francs. It was all her own fault. However, I’ll ask her for
a waltz another evening, and make it up to her _that_ way. Confound
those _Petits Chevaux_!

_Miss D._ AMY, he’s gone,—and I _haven’t_ danced and I haven’t sat
out with him—and he can’t’ say it’s _my_ fault either! (_She kisses
her hand to the Petits Chevaux inside._) Thanks, _ever_ so much, you
dear little beasts!

       *       *       *       *       *




THE BRUMMAGEM BIRDCATCHER.

(_A LAY OF A LABOUR PROGRAMME._) AIR—“_THE RATCATCHER’S DAUGHTER._”


[Illustration: _Brummagem Birdcatcher_ (_aside_). “AH! I FANCY I SHALL
HAVE THEM PRESENTLY!”]

  In Vestminster not long ago there dvelt a lad named JOEY;
  He vos not raised in Vestminster, but in a place more goey.
  At snaring birds he vos a dab, of eggs (and plots) a hatcher;
  And he vos called young Vistling JOE, the Brummagem Birdcatcher.

  Young JOE of Grand Old VILL-I-AM, at fust vos pal most chummy,
  But second fiddle vos not quite _the_ instrument for Brummy.
  Says he, “Old VILL vants his own vay, the vicked old vote-snatcher!
  But that arrangement vill not suit the Brummagem Birdcatcher!

  “I am as artful, qvite, as he, and much more young and active;
  I’ve a sweet vistle of my own the birds find most attractive.
  My nets may be unauthorised, and my decoys not his’n;
  Vot odds, ven those decoys vill draw, those nets the birds imprison?

  “VILLIAM’s a old Monopolist, or vould be if I’d let him;
  But on this here pertikler field I’ll lick him, that I’ll bet him.
  I am a cove as hates the Nobs; I dearly loves my neighbour;
  And if I _have_ a feeling heart it is for Honest Labour!

  “VILLIAM’s decoys are out of date but ven I’d shake and rummage’em
  He gets his back up like a shot. He’s jealous of Young Brummagem!
  I’ll set up on my own account; and I’ve a new half dozen
  Of nice decoys vich I am sure the shyest birds vill cozen.

  “I am not arter nightingales, the pappy poet’s darlings,
  I’m qvite content vith blackbirds brisk, and even busy starlings.
  The birds vot delve, vot track the plough, vot vatch the rustic
          thatcher,
  Are good enough—_in numbers_—for the Brummagem Birdcatcher.

  “VILLIAM may lure his Irish larks, and redpoles, tits, and finches,
  Good British birds vill do for me. I’m vun as never flinches
  From spreading of my nets all vide; vot comes _I_ can’t determine,
  But I don’t care for carrion-birds, I looks on ’em as wermin!

  “And so I ups and spreads my nets. Vot if the birds see plainly?
  My vistle is so vondrous sveet, I shall not spread ’em wainly,
  Then, my decoys! Ah! them’s the boys! In patience and in skill I am
  _The_ cove to catch a big bird-batch, and qvite a match for
          VILL-I-AM!”

  Old VILLIAM and young Vistling JOE are rivals, vot vere pardners!
  And some vill back the Brummyites, and some the Grand Old
          Harward’ners;
  But vichsoever from the fight of victory be the snatcher,
  The Midlands own a champion in the Brummagem Birdcatcher.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Mrs. Gusher._ “OH, GOOD-BYE, SIR JOHN. SO SORRY NOT TO
HAVE FOUND YOUR MOST _CHARMING_ WIFE AT HOME.”

_Sir John._ “THANKS—THANKS! BY THE WAY, LET ME ASSURE YOU I’VE ONLY
GOT _ONE_,—AND—”

[_Thinks that the remainder of the sentence is “better understood than
expressed.”_]

       *       *       *       *       *

“A ROYAL LINE” (IN THE BILLS).—The successor to _King Henry the
Eighth_ (at the Lyceum) will be _King Lear the First. “Le Roi est
mort! Vive le Roi_!”

       *       *       *       *       *




OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.


The Baron pauses in the midst of his varied literary and philosophic
studies to look into No. 46, Vol. iv., Part ii., of _Our Celebrities_,
a publication which has been admirably conducted by the late and the
present Count ASTRORÓG, which is the title, when he is at home, of the
eminent photographer and proprietor of the Walery-Gallery. First comes
life-like portrait of the stern Sir EDWARD W. WATKIN, on whose brow
Time, apparently, writes no wrinkles, though Sir EDWARD could put most
of us up to a few. Nor, strange to say, are there any lines on his
countenance, probably because he has so many other lines, existing and
contemplated, in his eye.

But ’tis not alone thy inky cloak, good Sir EDWARD, that attracts the
Baron, nor is it the business-like profile of THOMAS DE GREY, sixth
Lord Walsingham, Chairman of the Ensilage Committee, that gives the
Baron matter for special admiration; but it is the perfectly charming
portrait of “‘DAISY PLESS’ H.S.H. the Princess HENRY OF PLESS,” which
rivets the Baron’s attention, and causes him to exclaim, “She _is_
pretty, Pless her!” Miss CORNWALLIS WEST, but now a DAISY, now a
Princess, came up as a flower at Ruthin Castle, and “in 1891 Prince
HENRY OF PLESS,” says the brief narrative written by A. BULL (an
example of “a bull and no mistake”) “wooed and won the beauty of the
Season,”—lucky ’ARRY PLESS!—and then Prince ’ARRY took his bride to
Furstenstein, in Silesia, “a fine schloss, with beautiful gardens and
terraces,”—in short, “a Pleasaunce.” Count ASTRORÓG may do, as he
has done, many excellent photographic portraits, but this one will be
uncommonly “hard to beat,” and King of Photographers as he seems to
be, it is not every day that he has so charming a subject as Princess
DAISY presented to him. Receive, Count ASTRORÓG-WALERY, of the
Walery-Gallery, without any raillery, the congratulations most sincere
of the

BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

       *       *       *       *       *




“THE PLAYERS ARE COME!”


_First Player_ (_who has had a run of ill-luck_). I’m regularly
haunted by the recollection of my losses at Baccarat.

_Second Player._ Quite Shakspearian! “Banco’s” Ghost.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A PRIZE.]

_Little Spiffkins._ “DON’T YOU THINK ONE MIGHT GET UP A DANCE HERE
SOME EVENING?”

_Young Brown._ “NOT GIRLS ENOUGH, MY BOY!”

_Little Spiffkins._ “NOT GIRLS ENOUGH! WHY, _I_’VE GOT TO KEEP ’EM OFF
ME WITH A STICK!”

       *       *       *       *       *




CONVERSATIONAL HINTS FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS.


LUNCH (_continued_).—How delightful it is to awaken interest in the
female breast, to make the heart of lovely woman go pit-pat, as her
eyes read the words one’s pen has written. Even in drawing-rooms and
boudoirs, it seems, bright eyes have marked these attempts to teach
a correct conversational manner to those who engage in game-shooting.
Here is one letter of the hundreds that _Mr. Punch_ has one by one
pressed to his gallant lips with an emotion that might, perhaps, not
have been expected from one of his years and discretion. But how shall
time or caution prevail against universal love? The flame burns on
with an unquenchable ardour. Beautiful beings, the _Punch_ of your
affections is true to you all. He takes you in a lump and loves you.
He takes you singly and adores you, passionately but paternally. Here,
therefore, is the letter:—

DEAREST MR. PUNCH,

We have all been _so_ delighted to read your articles about shooting.
I read them to Papa after dinner in the drawing-room. Mamma says she
doesn’t understand such matters; but, of course, things have altered
_very much_ since her young days, as she is always telling us. Now
I want to ask your opinion about an important point. _Do_ you think
girls ought to go out and join the men at lunch? We all think it _so_
delightful, but FRED, my eldest brother, makes himself _extremely_
disagreeable about it—at least he did till last week, when EMILY
RAYBURN, who is my very _dearest_ friend, was staying with us. Then
he told me we might come for a change, but we were to go home again
directly afterwards. Generally he says that women are _a bore_ out
shooting. _Please_ tell us, dear _Mr. Punch_, what you really think
about it.

With much love, yours always,

ROSE LARKING.

P.S.—I am so glad you write the word “lunch,” and not “luncheon.” I
told FRED that—but he went to _Johnson’s Dictionary_, and read out
something about “Lunch” being only a colloquial form of “luncheon.”
Still, I don’t care a little bit. Dr. JOHNSON lived so long ago, and
couldn’t possibly know _everything_—could he?

R.L.

My darling young lady, I reply, your letter has made a deep impression
on me. Dr. JOHNSON did, as you say, live many years ago; so many years
ago, in fact, that (as a little friend of _Mr. Punch_ once said, with
a sigh, on hearing that someone would have been one hundred and fifty
years old if he had been alive at the present day) he must be “a orfle
old angel now.” The word “lunch” is short, crisp, and appetising. The
word “luncheon” is of a certain pomposity, which, though it may suit
the mansions of the great, is out of place when applied to the meals
of active sportsmen. So we will continue, if you please, to speak
of “lunch.” And now for your question. My charming ROSE, this little
treatise does not profess to do anything more than teach young
sportsmen how to converse. I assume that they have learnt shooting
from other instructors. And as to the details of shooting-parties,
how they should be composed, what they should do or avoid, and how
they should bear themselves generally—the subject is too great, too
solemn, too noble to be entered upon with a light heart. At any rate,
that is not my purpose here. It was rude—_very_ rude—of FRED to
say you were a bore—and I am sure it wasn’t true. I can picture
you tripping daintily along with your pretty companions to the lunch
_rendezvous_. You are dressed in a perfectly fitting, tailor-made
dress, cut short in the skirt, and displaying the very neatest and
smallest pair of ankles that ever were seen. And your dear little nose
is just a leetle—not red, no, certainly not red, but just delicately
pink on its jolly little tip, having gallantly braved the north wind
without a veil. To call _you_ a bore is absurd. But men are _such_
brutes, and it is as certain as that two and two (even at our public
schools) make four, that ladies are—what shall I say?—not so popular
as they always ought to be when they come amongst shooters engaged
in their sport. Even at lunch they are not _always_ welcomed with
enthusiasm. This is, perhaps, wrong, for, after all, they can do no
harm there.

But, darling ROSE, I am sure FRED was perfectly right to send you home
again directly the meal was over, though it must have wrung his manly
heart to part from EMILY RAYBURN. Even, I, the veteran sportsman
_Punch_, have qualms when a poor bird has been merely wounded, or
when a maimed hare shrieks as the dog seizes it. I cannot, as I say,
discuss the ethics of the question. The good shot is the merciful
shot. But, after all, in killing of every kind, whether by the gun or
the butcher’s knife, there is an element of cruelty. And therefore,
my pretty ROSE, _you_ must keep away from the shooting. Besides, have
I not seen a good shot “tailor” half-a-dozen pheasants in succession,
merely because a chattering lady—not a dear, pleasant little lump of
delight like you, ROSE—had posted herself beside him, and made him
nervous? By all means come to lunch if you must, but, equally by all
means, leave the guns to themselves afterwards. As for ladies who
themselves shoot, why the best I can wish them is, that they should
promptly shoot themselves. I can’t abide them. Away with them!

But, in order that the purpose of this work may be fulfilled,
and the conversational method inculcated, I here give a short
“Ladies-at-lunch-dialogue,” phonographically recorded, as a party of
five guns was approaching the place of lunch, at about 1:30 P.M.

_First Sportsman_ (_addressing his companion_). Now then, TOMMY, my
son, just smarten yourself up a bit, and look pretty. The ladies are
coming to lunch.

_Tommy_ (_horror—struck._) _What?_ The women coming to lunch? No,
hang it all, you’re joking. Say you are—do!

_First Sp._ Joking? Not I! I tell you six solid women are going to
lunch with us. I heard ’em all talking about it after breakfast, and
thinking it would be, _oh_, such fun! By the way, I suppose you know
you’ve got a hole in your knickerbockers.

_Tommy_ (_looking down, and perceiving a huge and undisguisable
rent_). Good Heavens! so I have. I must have done it getting over the
last fence. Isn’t it awful? I can’t show like this. Have you got any
pins?

    [_The_ Keeper _eventually promises that there shall be pins at
    the farm-house._

_Another Sportsman_ (_bringing up the rear with a companion_). Hope
we shan’t be long over lunch. There’s a lot of ground to cover this
afternoon, and old SYKES tells me they’ve got a splendid head of birds
this year, I always think—(_He breaks off suddenly; an expression of
intense alarm comes over his face._) Why, what’s that? No, it can’t
be. Yes, by Jingo, it is. It’s the whole blessed lot of women come out
to lunch, my wife and all. Well, poor thing, she couldn’t help it.
Had to come with the rest, I suppose. But it’s mean of CHALMERS—I
swear it is. He ought not to have allowed it. And then, never to
let on about it to us. Well, my day’s spoilt, if they come on with
us afterwards. I couldn’t shoot an ostrich sitting with a woman
chattering: to me. Miss CHICKWEED’s got her eye on you. LLOYD. She’s
marked you. No good trying to do a ramp. You’re nailed, my boy,
nailed!

_Lloyd._ Hang Miss CHICKWEED! She half killed me last night with all
kinds of silly questions. Asked me to be sure and bring her home a
rocketing rabbit, because she’d heard they were very valuable. Why
can’t the women stay at home?

    [_They walk on moodily._

_A few minutes later. Lunch has just begun._

_Miss Chickweed_ (_middle-aged, but skittish_). Oh, you naughty men,
how long you have kept us waiting! Now, Captain LLOYD, did you shoot
really well? Or, were you thinking of—Well, perhaps I oughtn’t to
say. See how discreet I am. But do tell me, all of you, _exactly_ how
many birds you shot—I do so like to hear about it. You begin, Captain
LLOYD. How many did you shoot? (_Without waiting for an answer._) I’m
sure you must have shot a dozen. Yes, I guess a dozen. And, oh, do
give me a feather for my hat! It will be so nice to have a _real_
feather to put in it. And we’ve got such a treat for you. MARY, you
tell them. No, I’ll tell them myself. If you’re all _very_ good at
lunch, we’re going to walk with you a little afterwards. There!

    [_But, at this awful prospect, consternation seizes the men._
    CHALMERS _(the host) makes frantic signs to his wife, who
    (having, somehow, been “squared”) affects not to see. A few
    desperate attempts are made to express a polite joy; but the
    lunch languishes, and, darkness closes over the melancholy
    scene._

       *       *       *       *       *

A NAVAL INQUIRY.—_The Howe_ and the why?

       *       *       *       *       *




THE VANISHING RUPEE.—A CRY FROM INDIA.


_A Colonel laments the disappearance of the Rupee, and shows how,
whenever he had a step up in his Regiment (each time growing in
importance and having more calls on his purse), the Rupee at once took
a step down, decreasing in importance and reputation._

[Illustration: I.—SUBALTERN.]

  As a “Sub,” free from family ties,
    With constant “fivers” from the Pater,
  The Rupee I thought a goodly size,
    Though once its value was much greater.

[Illustration: II.—CAPTAIN.]

  Raised to Captain’s rank, it so fell out
    I fell in love with the Station belle,[1]
  Got spliced; the Rupee, at once, no doubt,
    In spite, not in love, but value fell.

[Illustration: III.—MAJOR.]

  Children came, money went, all U P,
    I thought, when promotion brought more pay
  (What luck!); but that slippery Rupee
    Decreased more visibly from that day.

[Illustration: IV.—COLONEL.]

  Cramming! Schooling! Bills by every post!
    But now, as Colonel, I think I see
  My way; but I count without my host.
    Vanished, like a ghost, has the Rupee!

[Footnote 1: By this I do not mean the Barmaid who presides over the
stale buns at our Railway Refreshment-room; I refer to the prettiest
girl at the Military Station where I was quartered.]

       *       *       *       *       *




PREMIER AND PHYSICIAN.

(_IMAGINARY REPORT OF AN UTTERLY IMPOSSIBLE INTERVIEW._)


So you got through your labours at Oxford, my dear friend, without
feeling any ill effects?—Certainly, never enjoyed myself more.
Everyone paid the deepest attention. One Don actually used an
ear-trumpet.

Well, and what do you intend doing next?—Oh, lots of things. You see
my Parliamentary work is next to nothing—not a moment more than ten
hours a-day. So I must do something with my spare time.

Certainly, I have no objection. But I should like to hear your
programme.—I have only got it into form for a week or so. Before
the end of the year I shall have it ship-shape. But say for November.
Shall we say November?

Certainly. What do you propose doing in November?—Well, I think I
shall retranslate the works of HOMER, and write an exhaustive
article in the _Encylopædia Britannica_ (new edition) on the “Life of
WELLINGTON.”

And that is all? Well, and a fair amount, too!—All! What nonsense!
Why, that will take me less than no time. Then I think I shall ascend
Mont Blanc, so as to be able to see how the summit looks in winter.
Then I shall translate the _Waverley Novels_ into Swedish.

Well, you might be worse employed, but you must not overdo it.—Overdo
it! Certainly not! Why, I am strong as a horse. And that reminds me,
I think I shall attempt a long-distance ride on my own account. I feel
sure that I can do better than those German and Austrian fellows.

Where do you propose to ride?—From John o’ Groat’s to the Land’s End,
I fancy, will be the course. I ought to do it in three days.

Of course you will use more than one horse?—Oh, certainly. No
cruelty. And I think I shall try the walk myself on foot, just to see
if a horse will be able to keep up with me.

And is there any other exploit that you contemplate?—I thought I
might perhaps dine with the new Lord Mayor.

What! dine with the new Lord Mayor! Why, you would never be able to
bear the strain; the great exertion!—I was half afraid you might say
this, so I have written and respectfully declined the invitation!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: FELINE AMENITIES.]

“HOW KIND OF YOU TO CALL—I’M SO SORRY TO HAVE KEPT YOU WAITING!”

“OH, DON’T MENTION IT—I’VE NOT BEEN AT ALL BORED! I’VE BEEN TRYING TO
IMAGINE WHAT I SHOULD DO TO MAKE THIS ROOM LOOK COMFORTABLE IF IT WERE
MINE!”

       *       *       *       *       *




“ICHABOD!”


GOG, _loquitur_:—

  Here’s a pretty fine business, my MAGOG!!! Where are we a-drifting
          to now?
  These here tears in my eyes you must twig; I detect the glum gloom
          on your brow.
  Most natural, MAGOG, _most_ natural! Loyal old giants, like us,
  Must be cut to the heart by these times, which they get every year
          wus and wus!
  It’s Ikybod, MAGOG; I see it a-written all over the shop.
  Our glory’s departed, old partner. And where is it going for to
          stop?
  That Feast of BELSHAZZER weren’t in it for worritting warnings of
          woe;
  Which our beautiful Annual Banquet will soon not be worth half a
          blow.
  It’s not half a blow-out as it is, not compared with old glorious
          gorges.
  I wish, oh I wish, MAGOG mine, we was back in the times of the
          GEORGES,
  Or even DICK WHITTINGTON’s days, which for Giants was quite good
          enough;
  But they’ve spoilt all the good things of life with their Science,
          and Progress, and stuff.
  I see how it’s drifting, dear MAGOG. The Munching House and the
          Gildhall.
  Did use to be London’s fust pride. Is it so in these days? Not at
          all!
  Whippersnappers cock snooks at us, MAGOG; A ignerent pert L.C.C.,
  To whom Calipash is a mistry, whose soul never loved Calipee,
  A feller elected by groundlings, who can’t tell Madeira from Port,
  Some sour-faced suburban Dissenter—_he_, MAGOG, may make us his
          sport,
  Without being popped in the pillory! Proper old punishment that!
  As all the _old_ punishments _was_. We’re a-getting too flabby,
          that’s flat.
  The gallows, the stocks, and the pillory kept rebel rascals in hor,
  But now every jumped-up JACK CADE, or WAT TYLER can give us his jor
  Hot-and-hot, without fear of brave WALWORTH’s sharp dagger, or
          even a shower
  Of stones, rotten heggs, and dead cats. Yah! The People has far
          too much power
  With their wotes, and free speech, and such fudge. Ah! if
          GLADSTONE, and ASQUITH, and BURNS,
  And a tidy few more of their sort, in the pillory just took their
          turns,
  Like that rapscallion, DANIEL DEFOE, what a clearance he’d have of
          the cads
  Who worrit us out of our lives with Reform, and such humbugging
          fads!

MAGOG, _loquitur_:—

  Ah, GOG, I am quite of your mind! Which I don’t mind admitting
          that KNILL
  To a Protestant Giant like me was the least little bit of a pill.
  Stillsomever, he’s Lord Mayor now, and did ought to be backed up
          as such,
  For what City Fathers determine it ain’t for outsiders to touch.
  But where are the Big Pots? The Banquet seems shorn of its
          splendour to-day.
  No Premier, nor no Foreign Sec., nor no Chancellor!!! Really, I say
  This is rascally Radical imperence! How can they _dare_ stop away,
  From the greatest event of the year, when the words of ripe
          wisdom, well wined,
  Should fall from grave turtle-fed lips to make heasy the poor
          Public mind,
  As when PALMERSTON, _DIZZY_, and SALISBURY, spoke from that
          time-honoured Chair!
  And that GLADSTONE—_he_ ain’t no great loss!—but to think the
          Woodchopper should _dare_
  To neglect his fust duty like this!!! Oh! it’s Ikybod, just as you
          say,
  My GOG. Civic glory’s burst up, and the splendour of Lord Mayor’s
          Day
  Is eclipsed by that L.C.C. lot and their backers. I’m full, GOG,
          of fears;
  The look-out’s enough to depress us, and move the poor Turtle to
          tears.
  It’s Ikybod, Ikybod, Ikybod! Oh, for the days that were gayer,
  No GLADSTONE, no ROSEBERY, no HARCOURT!!! Wy, _next we shall have
          no Lord Mayor!_

[_Left lamenting._

       *       *       *       *       *

VERY CRUEL.—Mrs. R. was very much annoyed at something she said
having been misreported by a friend. “I can’t trust him,” said the
excellent Lady; “he twists and gargles everything I say.”

       *       *       *       *       *

OFTEN TALKED ABOUT BUT NEVER SEEN.—“A Clean Sweep.”

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ICHABOD!

GOG. “NO PRIME MINISTER! NO FURRIN SECKETARY! NO CHANCELLOR O’ TH’
EXCHEQUER!”

MAGOG (_bitterly_). “S’POSE WE SHAN’T HAVE NO LORD MAYOR NEXT!!”]

       *       *       *       *       *




THE MAN WHO WOULD.


I.—THE MAN WHO WOULD BE LAUREATE.

[Illustration]

His name was LEGION. He had kept his eye on the Laureateship from his
early boyhood, when he sent verses to the Poets’ Corner of the _Bungay
Weekly Mail_, which sometimes published them; then he cut them out,
and pasted them neatly in a book, which he still possesses. He always
wrote on an occasion. “Lines on the Recovery of My Sister EMILY from
the Mumps”; “Dirge on the Decease of a Favourite Squirrel,” beginning,
“No more!” but there was always plenty more where that came from, and
is still. At College he was one of the three men who wrote in _College
Rhymes_, and secured for that periodical a circulation by taking a
hundred copies each. LEGION sent dozens of his, marked, to every poet
he heard of, generally addressing them “Dear ALURED” (if that was the
Minstrel’s Christian name), or, in verse, “Brother, my Brother, my
sweet, swift Brother!” This annoyed some poets, who did not answer;
others were good-natured, and would reply,—

“DEAR SIR,—I have to acknowledge, with many thanks, your _Cebren and
Paris_, and anticipate much pleasure from its perusal.”

LEGION kept all these letters in a book, and published some of them as
advertisements of his _Cebren and Paris_ (an unsuccessful Newdigate),
when it appeared in a volume, with an astonishingly decorative cover.
It was a classical piece, in blank verse. Cebren, the father of
Œnone, is represented asking Paris what his intentions are as regards
that lady. It was piece of classical _genre_, the author said: such
interviews must have occurred when a young Trojan prince, with no
particular expectations, paid marked attentions to the daughter of a
River-god, like Cebren. Here is a specimen piece,—

  “Now mark me, Paris,” said the River-god,
  Seated among the damp lush water-weeds,
  His tresses crowned with crow’s-foot,—“Mark my words,
  Thou dalliest with my daughter; what thine aim,
  I ask, and crave an answer—great thy line,
  The lineage of renowned Laomedon.
  Thy sires have wedded goddesses ere now.
  But wealthy though the House of Troy may be.
  Thy father has a monstrous family,
  Daughters and sons as countless as the rills
  That Ida sends to be my tributaries.
  What he can give thee, what thy prospects are,
  What settlements thou art prepared to make,
  If thou wouldst lead Œnone to the altar,
  This would I know; excuse an anxious sire!”

  Then Paris murmured:—
        “Honourable but vague,
  Remote, but honourable, my purpose is:”
  And that great River-god arose in flood,
  Monstrous, and murmuring, and to the main.
  He swept the works of men and oxen down,
  And had not Paris climbed into a tree,
  He ne’er had crossed the ocean; never seen
  The fairest face that launched a thousand ships,
  And burned the topless towers of Ilium.

Some accused LEGION of plagiarising the last line and a half, which
reminded them, they said, of MARLOWE. But he replied that great wits
jump, that it was an accidental coincidence. The public, which rarely
cares much for poetry, was struck by _Cebren and Paris_. “There is in
it,” said the _Parthenon_, “an original music, and a chord is struck,
reverberating from the prehistoric years, which will find an answer
in the heart of every father of a family.” The Clergy at large quoted
_Cebren and Paris_ in their charges and sermons, and the work was
a favourite prize at seminaries for young ladies. Consequently all
the other poets, whom nobody buys, arose, and blasphemed _Cebren and
Paris_ in all the innumerable reviews. This greatly, and justly, added
to the popularity of LEGION’s book. He followed it up by _Idylls of
the Nursery_, a volume of exquisite pieces on infants as yet incapable
of speaking or walking. This had an enormous success among young
newly-married people, an enthusiastic class of the community. At
recitations you might hear—

  Tootsy, wootsy, pooty sing,
  Mammie’s darling, icky thing!
  Coral lips that fret the coral,
  Innocence completely moral.
      Sweet Babe,
        They say,
    Naught rhymes to Babe,
        In any lay
  Save “astrolabe,”—
  And Tippoo Saib!
      Oh, tiny face,
        And tiny feet,
      Oh, infant grace,
         So incomplete,
    Kiss me, my Sweet!

In sequence to these effusions, LEGION poured forth Ballades, and
Rondeaux, and wrote a Chant Royal on a General Election which occupied
a whole column of a newspaper, and needed three men to read, with a
boy for the “envoy.” But this ditty was not thought to have seriously
affected the voting classes in any direction. LEGION was now usually
spoken of as “the versatile Mr. LEGION,” a compliment which never
failed to annoy him hugely. Sated with popular applause, he turned
into a vein of new poetry, and produced _The Song of the Spud_, which,
his admirers averred was “racy of the soil.” A grand English Opera,
on the Pilgrimage of Grace, was performed, at immense expense, LEGION
being the Librettist. It was patriotic, but not exactly popular.
Still, with all these claims on his country, LEGION lived in hopes
which were wofully disappointed; for, when his chance came at last,
a Prime Minister of modern ideas declared that, as a Laureate is not
useful, he must be ornamental. Now, neither LEGION, nor any of his
rivals, could be called decorative, whatever they might have been in
their youth. They needed laurels, for the same reason as JULIUS CÆSAR.
The wreath was therefore offered (by a Plébiscite conducted in a
newspaper) to the young Lady-poet whose verses and photograph secured
the greatest number of votes; the Laureate, in every case, to resign,
on attaining her twenty-fifth birthday. The beautiful and accomplished
Mrs. JINGLEY JONES triumphed in this truly modern competition, and
her book was rushed into a sale of two hundred and fifty copies. After
this check the writing of poetry ceased to attract male enterprise—to
the extreme joy of Publishers and Reviewers; though the market for
waste-paper received a shock from which it never rallied. The youthful
male population of England determined never to become Poets, unless
they were born Poets, a resolution on which, at all times, a minority
of the race had acted, with the best results.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Mr. J.L. “Walker” Toole and “Full Company.”]

“NOTES AND PAPER.”—There is a lot of “paper” about from
“Walker—London.” No, Mr. JOHNNIE TOOLE, Sir, not your “paper,” for
_your_ House is crammed and your “paper” is at a premium. But this
particular WALKER, of Warwick House, London, sends forth “Society
Stationery”—“which,” as _Mrs. Gamp_ would have said, “spelling of
it with an ‘a’ instead of an ‘e,’ Society never is.” Among the lot
there’s an “Antique Society Paper,” which should be a Society Paper
as old as the world itself, or it might be used by a Fossilised Fogey
Club. WALKER & Co.’s new “Society Paper,” whether antique or modern,
is pretty and quite harmless—till pen and ink are at work on it; and
then—but that’s another story.

       *       *       *       *       *




COSTS AS THEY ARE AND WILL BE.


(_TWO SCENES FROM A FARCICAL TRAGEDY SHOWING THAT SOME OF THE JUDGES’
RECOMMENDATIONS MIGHT BE ADOPTED IMMEDIATELY._)

THE PRESENT (_AS THEY ARE_). SCENE—SOLICITOR’S _PRIVATE ROOM._
SOLICITOR _AWAITING WEALTHY_ CLIENT. CLERK _IN ATTENDANCE._

_Solicitor._ The lady is to be shown in the moment she arrives; and
mind, I am not to be disturbed as long as she is here.

_Clerk._ Yes, Sir. [_Exit._

_Sol._ Quite pleasant way of spending a morning. (_Enter_ Client.) Ah,
my dear lady, and how are you?

_Client._ Very well, thank you; but BOBBY is not so well, and as for
MARY—

    [_Enters into long domestic details._

_Sol._ (_in a sympathetic tone_). Dear me! And what has given me the
pleasure of seeing you here to-day?

_Client._ I only looked in to ask you how you thought our suit was
going on?

_Sol._ Oh, capitally! You know, we have had several appointments
before the Chief Clerk in Chambers, and—

    [_Enters into long explanation, bristling with
    technicalities._

_Client_ (_quite at sea_). Dear me, what a complicated affair a
Chancery suit is! I had no idea we should have to do all this. But
won’t it be very expensive?

_Sol._ (_smiling_). Well, yes; but it will all be paid out of the
estate. You, my dear lady, won’t have to pay anything for it—I mean
out of your own pocket.

_Client._ Oh, that is delightful! Because you see with the carriages
and the opera-box— And that reminds me, I think I shall give up the
opera-box. Do you know last Season the music was magnificent, but
quite too learned. I think— (_Gives her views at great length upon
the Opera, past, present and future. At the end of her remarks_—) But
how I do run on! I am afraid I am taking up your time.

_Sol._ Not at all. I have nothing particular to do, and our interview
comes out of the estate. Now are you sure we can do nothing for you
this morning? The last time you were here we got copies of all the
orders for you. I hope you received them safely.

_Client_ (_laughing_). Why, I do not think I have opened the packet!
I came across a bundle the other day, and could not make out what it
was, and laid it aside, because I saw your name upon it and thought it
must have something to do with that troublesome Chancery suit.

_Sol._ (_laughing_). Well, my dear Madam, that parcel represented
several pounds. However, it doesn’t matter; you won’t have to pay for
it, as it will come out of the estate. And now, what can we do for
you? Have you looked into the accounts carefully?

_Client._ No, and I am rather fond of figures.

_Sol._ Then we will send you a copy for, say, the last five years.

_Client._ Shall I be able to make them out?

_Sol._ You ought to be able to do so, my dear Madam. They will be
prepared by a leading firm of Accountants, and we will check them
ourselves before we send them to you. Is there anything else?

_Client._ No thanks—I think not. And now I must say good-bye. I am
ashamed to take up so much of your valuable time.

_Sol._ Not at all. I shall be amply remunerated out of the estate.
(_Exit_ Client. Solicitor _gives his_ Clerk _the heads for six folios
of a bill of costs, and then observes_—) Not a bad morning’s work!

THE FUTURE (_AS THEY WILL BE_). SCENE—_THE SAME._ SOLICITOR _AND_
CLERK _DISCOVERED._

_Sol._ Now mind, on no account is she to be admitted. She talks about
all sorts of things and takes up my time dreadfully, and now the
Court won’t pass “luxurious costs,” and objects to payment out of the
estate, I can charge nothing. So mind, she is not to be admitted.

_Clerk._ Very good, Sir. [_Exit._

_Sol._ Yes. At my very busiest time, when every moment is valuable!
(_Enter_ Client.) What you, my dear Madam! I really am too busy to
attend to you this morning.

_Client_ (_astonished_). Why you said you were always pleased to see
me!

_Sol._ But that was before the Judges’ recommendations were adopted.
Nowadays we must not let you run up costs until we have explained to
you in writing what you are about. And as all you say will come out
of your own pocket, and not out of the estate, it is only fair to warn
you.

_Client._ What, out of my own pocket! Then I shall be off.

_Sol._ Sorry to give up our pleasant conversations, but they run into
money. (_Exit_ Client, _when the_ Solicitor _shakes his head to the_ Clerk
_who has brought his rough draft of costs, and to which nothing now can
be legally added, and observes_—) Not a good day’s work!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: BALANCE OF PROBABILITIES.]

_High Church Lady._ “I SUPPOSE THAT WAS THE LADY CHAPEL BEHIND THE
CHOIR?”

_Low Church Verger._ “I DON’T FANCY THERE’S HANY SUCH ’EREABOUTS, M’M.
I THINK IT WAS ONLY THE PEW-OPENER!”

       *       *       *       *       *




THE BOOM-DE-AY POET.

    [“Mr. RICHARD MORTON, the author of “_Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay_,”
    has been called to prove what would be a reasonable figure for
    the whole proprietary rights of a song.”—_Times Law Reports,
    Nov. 3rd._]


  He came before the public t’other day!—
  The Author of “_Ta-ra-ra-Boom-de-ay!_”
  ’Twas in a case before Judge GRANTHAM brought
  (It should have been in Justice “COLLINS’” Court)
  When the Inspired Bard the Jury faced.
  As he within the witness-box was placed.
  He told us how his Pegasus would fly
  From plain (two guineas) up to (ten) the sky!
  But for the song he wrote for LOTTIE fair
  We hope he was a-Lottie’d a large share
  In all its earnings. May it not be long
  Ere he produce another catching song;
  But should he fail, then when the poet’s clay
  Be laid to rest, it will suffice to say,
  “_Vixit._ He wrote ‘_Ta-ra-ra-Boom-de-ay!_’”

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. R., on hearing that a Cricket-team, though not first-rate, had _a
leaven_ of good players, inquired how they could have more of them.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE LORD MAYOR’S SHOW.

MEDITATIONS OF THE LORD MAYOR’S FOOTMAN.]

       *       *       *       *       *




OPERA-GOERS’ DIARY.


_Covent Garden, Tuesday, Nov. 1st._—_Tristan und Isolde._ About the
dullest thing that even a much-enduring Wagnerite ever heard. Glass
down to zero.

[Illustration: OUR CRITIC AT THE OPERA.

  He heareth _Tristan | He heareth _Cavalleria | He seeth and heareth
  und Isolde_ wrapt   | Rusticana_ rapt in     | _Aïda_, “More power
  in slumber.         | ecstasy.               | to your Melba!’”]

_Wednesday._—Glass up again. _Orféo_ with the two RAVOGLI and
the marvellous BAUERMEISTER as _Cupid_. Wonderful little lady
BAUERMEISTER-singer! I’ve said it before, and I repeat it
emphatically, BAUERMEISTER is “a little treasure” to an Operatic
Manager. MASCAGNI’s _Cavalleria Rusticana_ was the second course
to-night, in which this adaptable lady, the _Cupid_ of the first
piece, appeared as old heart-broken grey-haired _Lucia_, the mother
of the gay _Turiddu_. Were Sir AUGUSTUS inclined to introduce a
little light English jocosity into this serious Opera, he might give
a line to the implacable _Alfio_, saying, “I’ve come to rid you of
_Turiddu_!” If MASCAGNI had heard this, he would have composed an
additional _Intermezzo_ expressing the whole force of the idea.

_Thursday._—_Carmen_ expected, but tenor off colour, so change of air
(or should say airs) recommended, and adopted. Audience sent to the
country, or, rather, _Rusticana_ brought to them.

_Friday._—House crammed. Great excitement to hear MELBA as _Aïda_,
the darky girl. Everybody delighted, except perhaps MELBA herself,
who, on seeing the bouquets, must have murmured, “_Trop de fleurs_!”
Everybody good. Quite the best night of the Season. To-night
BAUERMEISTER appears as _Sacerdotessa_. So this week she has been
Cupid, an old Peasant woman, _Frascita_, a Brigand’s Young Woman;
and then, being repentant, she finishes as a Priestess! It’s a whole
life-time in a few days.

       *       *       *       *       *




LADY GAY’S DETECTION.


_Berkeley Square, W._

MR. PUNCH, Sir,

I am surprised to find a Journal of your standing lowering itself to
follow the example of the so-called “Society Journals” by inserting
contributions from women!—I have discovered, no matter how, that My
Wife, who always declares she hates letter-writing, has for months
past contributed a long weekly letter to _Punch_, dealing with racing
from a humorous (save the mark!) point of view! Now I never make jokes
myself—at least intentionally—nor do I think it becomes a man of
position to do so—and I quite agree with SWIFT or SHERIDAN (I know
it was _one_ of these infernal clever literary chaps) who said, “A
humorous woman is a delusion and a snare!”—so you may imagine my
disgust at finding My Wife writing for a Journal!—why couldn’t she
have asked Me to help her?—and signing her articles anonymously
too!—for I need hardly tell you she is no more “GAY” than I am!—at
all events when in _my_ society!

Like most busy idlers (that is _not_ intended for a joke)—I go racing
a bit, and of course “have a bit on” like other people, and having
tried all the turf-prophets in turn, with unsatisfactory results, I
was delighted to hear from a friend that “a new DANIEL had come to
judgment” in the person of a tipster on _Punch_, who was “wonderful
good”—(it was just the time when she _did_ blunder on to a
winner)—and I made up my mind to follow the new Prophet DANIEL; but,
by Jove! it resulted in a loss, and DANIEL landed me among the lions
in no time! These are _not_ jokes, but sober facts—I plunged heavily
on all the “Selections,” and am now in the pleasant position of owing
the Ring a substantial sum in addition to “the old,” through following
My Wife’s advice—whilst _her_ banking-account is considerably
augmented through having _laid against_ her own tips! This _may_ be
humorous, but as i said, I don’t approve of humour when exercised on
myself!

I laughed most consumedly at some of her articles, but on looking them
over again—(she has kept the lot, pasted in a book—a monument to my
fatuity!)—I don’t think so much of them now I know she wrote them,
and see that I could have made numberless valuable suggestions had
she only seen fit to consult me! Of course I could stop any further
contribution on her part, but consideration for your readers (?)
prevents that—to say nothing of _her_ determination to continue—so
I have therefore consented to her odd whim, on the condition that in
future I “edit” her contributions;—I need hardly assure you that I
shall confine my “editing” strictly to these limits, and that your
own Editor need be under no apprehension as to my usurping his
place,—ably as I should, no doubt, fill it!

My Wife begs me to follow her example, and conclude with a verse—(I
don’t know where she picked up such a bad habit)—but—while bowing
to her wishes—(I am always polite)—to a certain extent, I absolutely
decline to make the verse other than _blank_!

  Believe me, Yours obediently,
    CHARLES POMPERSON (Bart.).




JOURNALISTIC SELECTION.


  I must confess that if compelled
    To write for any Journal,
  I should prefer as a matter of choice
    To write for _Punch_!

[On a slip of paper found in Sir CHARLES’s envelope, we have the
following from our valued contributress—[ED.]:—“_DEAR_ MR. PUNCH,—I
am too upset to write—you shall hear from me next week. Tours as
devotedly as ever,—LADY GAY.”]

       *       *       *       *       *

ANECDOTAGE.—_Mr. Punch_ one day was reading aloud from a book of
anecdotes when Mr. WEEDON GROSSMITH was present. “What rot!” observed
the representative of _Lord Arthur Pomeroy_. And _Mr. Punch_ agreed
with him.

       *       *       *       *       *




PHANTASMA-GORE-IA.


_PICTURING THE VARIOUS MODES OF MELODRAMATIC MURDER. (BY OUR
“OFF-HIS”-HEAD POET.)_


NO. II.—THE POISON MURDER.

[Illustration]

  Sit close to your friend, for a frightful end
    Is at hand for the miser Jew!
  Sit tight to your seat while the pulses beat—
    Nestle close to your neighbour, do!
      For he’ll perish, alas!
      From a property glass
    Filled with nothing whatever—neat!

  He’s there by himself, counting piles of pelf
    Of a counterfeit gamboge hue.
  He’s wizened and dried like old _Arthur Gride_,
    That the novelist DICKENS drew.
      In the midst of his heaps,
      He conveniently sleeps
    With his glass at his right-hand side!

  Keep watch on the door while he snores his snore—
    See it open a foot or two!
  Oh! well is it planned! for the wobbling hand
    Of the villain, with bottle blue,
      Knows at once where to pass
      To the property glass
    Of the melodramatic brand!

  The murderer goes; the Jew’s eyes unclose,
    And they look for his liquor true!
  Sit tight while the treat is at fever heat;
    For I saw by that bottle blue,
    And I knew by its label too,
      That the stuff it contained,
      If by anyone drained,
    Must prove fatal if taken neat!

  The poison he lifts, and the lot he shifts!
    Oh! unfortunate miser Jew!
  What use is your gold, now your time is told,
    And your moments in life are few?
      You may writhe where you sit
      Like an eel in a fit,
    But you’ll die like the Jews of old!
      You may struggle a lot,
      And get awfully hot,
    But you’ll have to lie stiff and cold!
      You may wriggle no end,
      But you’re a dead ’un, my friend—
    Till the Curtain is quite unrolled!

       *       *       *       *       *

☞ 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.