Produced by V. L. Simpson, Malcolm Farmer and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net









PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.


VOL. 103.




December 17th, 1892.




    [Illustration: THE WILD WILD EAST.

    _First Coster._ "SAY, BILL, 'OW D'YER LIKE MY NEW
    KICKSEYS? GOOD FIT, EH?"

    _Second Coster._ "FIT! THEY AIN'T NO _FIT_. THEY'RE A
    _HAPERPLICTICK STROKE!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

MIXED NOTIONS.

No. 1.--BI-METALLISM.

SCENE--_A Railway-carriage in a suburban morning train to London. There
are four Passengers, two of whom are well-informed men, while the third
is an inquirer, and the fourth an average man. They travel up to London
together every morning by the same train. The two_ Well-informed Men
_and the_ Average Man _are City men; the_ Inquirer _is a young
Solicitor. They have just finished reading their morning papers, and are
now ready to impart or receive knowledge._

_Inquirer._ They don't seem to be making much of this Monetary
Conference in Brussels.

_First Well-informed Man._ Of course they're not. I knew how it would be
from the start. I met HARCOURT some time ago, and told him what I
thought about it. "You mark my words," I said, "the whole blessed thing
will be a failure. You haven't sent out the right men, and they're
certain to waste their time in useless academic discussions." He seemed
surprised, but he hadn't got a word to say.

_Inquirer_ (_deeply impressed_). Ah!

_First W. I. M._ The thing's really as simple as A B C. Here are we, a
country with a gold standard, and we find that gold has appreciated.
What's the consequence? Why, silver goes down everyday, and commerce is
dislocated,--absolutely dislocated. All we have to do is to----

_Second W. I. M._ (_breaking in_). One moment! When you say gold has
appreciated, you mean, of course, that the purchasing power of gold has
increased--in other words, commodities are cheaper. Isn't that so?

_First W. I. M._ Yes. Well, what then?

_Second W. I. M._ What's your remedy? Do you think you can make things
better by fixing a ratio between gold and silver? In the first place,
you can't do it; they've got nothing to do with one another.

_First W. I. M._ (_triumphantly_). Haven't they? What have you got to
say, then, about the Indian rupee? That's where the whole of your
beautiful system comes to grief. You can't deny that.

_Second W. I. M._ The Indian rupee has got nothing to do with it. My
theory is, that it's all due to the American coinage of silver, and
(_vaguely_), if we do the same as they, why, we shall only make things
worse. No, no, my boy, you've got hold of the wrong end of the stick,
there. Look at the Bland Bill. Do you want to have that kind of thing in
England?

_Inquirer._ God forbid! By the way, what was the Bland Bill?

_Second W. I. M._ _What!_ you don't know what the Bland Bill was? Don't
you remember it? It provided that a certain amount of silver was to be
coined every year, and the Treasury was to hold the surplus until it
reached a certain value, and then,--but every schoolboy knows what
happened.

_Average Man._ What did happen, as a matter of fact?

_Second W. I. M._ (_scornfully_). Why, the market was flooded.

_First W. I. M._ Yes, and that exactly proves my point. Make fifteen the
ratio between gold and silver, and you'll never have the market flooded
again.

_Second W. I. M._ (_hotly_). How do you make that out?

_First W. I. M._ It's as plain as a pikestaff. Make silver your legal
tender for large amounts in this country, and you stop all these United
States games at one blow.

_Second W. I. M._ Fiddlesticks! I suppose you'll want us to believe next
that if we become bi-metallists, corn and everything else will go up in
value?

_First W. I. M._ Of course it will. We've only got to get Germany and
France, and the rest of them to come in, and the thing's as good as
done. What I say is, adopt bi-metallism, and you relieve trade and
agriculture, and everything else.

_A. M._ Do you mean we shall have to pay more for everything?

_First W. I. M._ No, of course not; I mean that the appreciation of gold
is a calamity which we've got to get rid of.

_A. M._ I don't see it. If my sovereign buys more than it did years ago,
that seems to be a bit of a catch for me, don't it?

_First W. I. M._ Ah, I daresay you think so, but you're wrong. If you
fix a ratio, things may be dearer, but you'll have twice as much
purchasing power.

_Inquirer_ (_anxiously_). How do you fix a ratio?

_Second W. I. M._ Ah, that's the question!

_First W. I. M._ That's not my business. I say it ought to be fixed, and
it's for the Chancellor of the Exchequer and the Bank of England to do
it.

_Second W. I. M._ (_decisively_). The Bank can't do it. Its Charter
won't allow it.

_Inquirer._ How's that? I never quite understood the Charter.

_Second W. I. M._ By the Charter the Bank has to----

    [_But at this moment, the train having drawn up at a
    station, an intruder gets into the carriage. He is
    severely frowned upon, and the conversation, thus
    checked, is not resumed._

_Inquirer_ (_getting out at terminus, to_ First W. I. M.). I think I've
got a pretty clear notion of Bi-metallism now, thanks to you.

_First W. I. M._ (_modestly_). Oh, it's quite simple, if you only take
the trouble to give your mind to it.

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Illustration: A Little Mixed.]

       *       *       *       *       *

_OUR_ "MISSING WORD COMPETITION."

_Guaranteed exempt from any Treasury prosecution under 1st Jingo, B. IV.
Cap_ (_Fit_) 1, _sec_ (_Pommery_) '74. (_Heading, "Wish you may get
it."_)

MR. PUNCH

DESIRES TO CONVEY TO ALL, URBI ET ORBI, HIS VERY KINDEST ....... AND
BEST....... FOR THE COMING CHRISTMAS, 1892.

N.B.--_Coupons must be cut from the current number, and should be sent
to_ SIR JOHN BRIDGE, _Bow-Street, E.C., with shillings for the Poor Box
to same address._

       *       *       *       *       *

THE QUEEN AND THE SONGSTRESS.--In consequence of Her Gracious MAJESTY'S
marked approbation of Miss PALLISER'S operatic performance at Windsor
Castle, Sir DRURIOLANUS WINSORENSIS UBIQUITOSUS has serious thoughts of
asking the young cantatrice to change her name to Miss ROYAL PALLIS-ER;
or, if she has the honour of singing "By Command" in London, to Miss
BUCKINGHAM PALLIS-ER.

       *       *       *       *       *

"NEXT PLEASE!"--_My Brother's Out_--new work by Mrs. LOVETT CAMERON,
Authoress of _A Sister's Sin_.

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Illustration: "THE WANDERING MINSTREL."

    _Jem Baggs_ (_"The Wandering Minstrel"_). "THEY MAY SAY
    WHAT THEY LIKE AGIN THE COUNTY COUNCIL; _I_ SAYS THEY'RE
    JOLLY GOOD FELLERS."]

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Illustration: MISPLACED QUOTATIONS.

    _Young Jones_ (_who, five minutes before the
    announcement of Dinner, has been introduced to Miss
    Sprightly, and has been endeavouring to find a fitting
    remark wherewith to open the conversation._)
    "THIS--ER--I BELIEVE IS CALLED THE--ER--_'MAUVAIS QUART
    D'HEURE'!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE WANDERING MINSTREL."

(_Modern Kensington Version._)

    [The London County Council has declined to co-operate
    with the Kensington Vestry in a representation to the
    Home Secretary for more efficient control over
    itinerant musicians, street-cries, and similar
    nuisances, on the ground that though the Council has
    power to make bye-laws for this object, there are no
    means of enforcing them.]

SCENE--_Highly respectable Terrace in Kensington. The exterior of_ MR.
TAMBOUR'S _house. Enter_ JEM BAGGS (R.H.) _playing the clarinet badly._

_Jem B._ (_loq._) Vell now! that's vot I calls wery tidy vork!
Bob and a tanner for seven doors ain't none so dusty, blow me!
Summat better this 'ere than orkin' "'All the new and popilar songs
of the day for a penny!" Vot miserable vork that vos to be sure! I vos
allays a cryin' about the streets, "Here y' are--one 'undered and fifty
on 'em pootily bound in a Monster Song Book for a penny!--Here's
'_Ran-ta-rar-roopy-ay!'--'Mary, they 'ave raised my Screw'--'Sling yer
'ook, yer 've got no oof, John.'--'Snide Sammy courted Sally Brown'--'On
the Banks of the yaller Lea.'--'Chummies! Chummies!'--'Fanny
Tooney'--'The Man who ran the Muglumberer's Building Society'--'Dandy
Dan, the Whelk Man, and 'is Donah'--'He vos famed for gargling
Fizz'--'His there a Lip vot never Lapped?'--'A Life on the
Lotion-Lay'--'If I 'ad a Monkey on, vouldn't I go!'--'Down to the Derby
vith a Shallow and a Moke'--'Oh, say not Modern Art is Sold'_--for the
small charge of a penny!" I dessay I might ha' been at that there
callin' to this werry day, if it hadn't been for BOSKY BILL. I shall
never forget BOSKY BILL'S a-sayin' to me--says he, "I say, JEM BAGGS, vy
don't yer take to the singin' line?" "Cos I sings vorser than 'The Big
Bounce,'" says I. "Vorser!" says he, "Vhy so much the betterer!" "Woice
ain't vanted," says he, "only leather and brass. Leather for yer lungs,
and brass for yer face, and there yer are, in the 'Alls or out on 'em."
"But 'ow about them Bye-Laws, BILLY?" says I. "Bye-Laws be bust!" says
he, scornful. "_Who's to henforce 'em?_ Westries and County Councils
can't. Bobbies--bless 'em!--_von't_," says he. "So there yer are, JEM
BAGGS!" In course I tvigged. Vith my woice _and_ a vistle, sez I,
they'll villingly give a tanner to git rid of me! And they _do_! Oh, _I_
know the walley of peace and qvietness, and never moves hon hunder
sixpence! (_Looking up at the house._) But I know as there's a hartist
covey lives 'ere. Notice-plate says, "Mister TAMBOUR is _hout_." Valker!
I know vot that means. I thinks as how he'll run to a shilling. Anyhow,
I'll kick him for a bob.

    [_He strikes up, taking care to make as much noise at
    possible._

    'Tis hof a great Council in London doth dvell;
    Jest vot they are arter 'tvould floor me to tell.
    They're qvite a young body--not seving years old--
    But they've spent a large fortin in silver and go-o-old.
      Singing, Ills ve vill cure all on the Sosherlist lay.

    As the Council vere a sitting in their Chamber von day,
    The Westry come to them, and thus it did say:--
    "Ve're off to the Home Sec., street shindies to stay,
    So put on your toppers, and come vith hus, pray!"
                   Singing, &c.

    "Nay, Westry," said the Council, "your vish is declined,
    To co-operate (at present) ve can't make up our mind;
    Our Bye-Laws the Bobbies von't enforce. 'Tis a bore!
    But the Public must bear it just a year or two more!"
                   Singing, &c.

    "Go to, County Council!" that Westry replied,
    "You svagger no end, and put on lots of side;
    But vhen plain reform 'tis our vish to begin,
    By _your_ aid ve don't benefit not von single pin!"
                   Singing, &c.

    [_His melodious flow is interrupted by a violent
    rapping at the window, and the sudden opening of the
    street-door._

_Jem Baggs_ (_loq._) Aha! I knew they couldn't stand that werry long.
Out comes the sarvint vith tuppence or thruppence, and a horder for me
to "move on." Valker! There ain't no Bobby in sight, and I shan't shift
under a shilling. Vell, they may say vot they likes agin the County
Council; _I_ says they're jolly good fellers, and I'll drink their
bloomin' 'ealth out o' that hartist cove's bob, ven I gets it. [_Tunes
up again._

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Illustration: "À la Cocotte?"]

AT A VEGETARIAN RESTAURANT.

SCENE--_"The Nebuchadnezzar's Head," in the City. Time--The luncheon
hour. The interior, which is bright, and tastefully arranged, is crowded
with the graminivorous of both sexes. Clerks of a literary turn devour
"The Fortnightly" and porridge alternately, or discuss the comparative
merits of modern writers. Lady-clerks lunch sumptuously and economically
on tea and baked ginger-pudding. Trim Waitresses move about with a sweet
but slightly mystic benignity, as conscious of conducting a dietetic
mission to the dyspeptic._

_A Vegetarian Fiancé_ (_who has met his betrothed by appointment, and is
initiating her into the mysteries_). I wish you'd take something more
than a mustard-and-cress roll, though, LOUISE--it gives you such a poor
_idea_ of the thing. (_With honest pride._) You just see me put away
this plate of porridge. At the "Young Daniel," where I usually lunch,
they give you twice the quantity of stuff they do here.

_Louise_ (_admiringly_). I'm so glad I've seen you lunch. Now I shall be
able to fancy every day exactly what you are having.

_Her Fiancé_ (_to assist her imagination_). Mind you, I don't _always_
have porridge. Sometimes it's mushroom croquettes, or turnip and onion
rissoles,--whatever's going. Now yesterday, for instance, I had----

    [_He details exactly what he had, and she listens to
    these moving episodes with the rapt interest of a
    Desdemona._

_First Literary Clerk._ No; but look here, you don't take my _point_.
I'm not running down SWINBURNE--all I'm arguing is, he couldn't have
written some of the things BROWNING did.

_Second L. C._ Of course not--when BROWNING had written them--_that's_
nothing against him.

_First L. C._ (_warmly_). I'm not saying it _is_. I'm telling you the
difference between the two men--now BROWNING, he makes you _think_!

_Second L. C._ He never made _me_ think, that's all _I_ know.

_Third L. C._ Nor yet me. Now, 'ERBERT SPENCER, he _does_ make you
think, if you like!

_First L. C._ Now you're getting on to something else. The grand fault I
find with SWINBURNE, is----

_Second L. C._ Hold hard a bit. Have you read him?

_Third L. C._ Yes, let's 'ave that first. 'Ave you _read_ 'im?

_First L. C._ (_with dignity_). I've read as much of him as I care to.

_Second L. C._ (_aggressively_). What have you read of his? Name it.

_First L. C._ I've read his _Atlantis in Caledonia_, for one thing.

_Second L. C._ (_disappointed_). Well, you don't deny there's poetry in
_that_, do you?

_First L. C._ I don't call it poetry in the sense I call WALT WHITMAN
poetry--certainly not.

_Second L. C._ There you touch a wider question--there's no _rhyme_ in
WHITMAN, to begin with.

_First L. C._ No more there is in MILTON; but I suppose you'll admit
_he's_ a poet.

    [_And so on, until none of them is quite sure what he
    is arguing about exactly, though each feels he has got
    decidedly the best of it._

_First Lady Clerk_ (_at adjoining table, to_ Second L. C.). How excited
those young men do get, to be sure. I do like to hear them taking up
such intellectual subjects, though. Now, _my_ brothers talk of nothing
but horses, and music-halls, and football, and things like that.

_Second L. C._ (_pensively_). I expect it's the difference in food that
accounts for it. I don't think I _could_ care for a man that ate meat.
Are you going to have another muffin, dear? _I_ am.

_An Elderly Lady, with short hair and spectacles (to_ Waitress). Can you
bring me some eggs?

_Waitress._ Certainly, Madam. How would you like them done--_à la
cocotte?_

_The E. L._ (_with severity_). Certainly _not_. You will serve them
_respectably_ dressed, _if_ you please!

_Waitress_ (_puzzled_). We can give you "Convent eggs" if you prefer it.

_The E. L._ I never encourage superstition--poach them.

_Enter a_ Vegetarian Enthusiast, _with a_ Neophyte, _to whom he is
playing Amphitryon_.

_The Veg. Enth._ (_selecting a table with great care_). Always like to
be near the stove, and out of the draught. (_The prettiest Waitress
approaches, and greets him with a sacerdotal sweetness, as one of the
Faith, while to the Neophyte--whom she detects, at a glance, as still
without the pale--she is severely tolerant._) Now, what are _you_ going
to have? [_Passing him the bill of fare._

_The Neoph._ (_inspecting the document helplessly_). Well, really, er--I
think I'd better follow _your_ lead.

_The Veg. Enth._ I generally begin with a plate of porridge
myself--clears the palate, y'know.

_The Neoph._ (_unpleasantly conscious that it wouldn't clear his_ ). I'm
afraid that, at this time of day--to tell you the truth (_with desperate
candour_), I never _was_ a porridge lover.

    [_The_ Waitress _regards him sorrowfully._

_The Veg. Enth._ Pity! Wholesomest thing you can take. More sustenance
to the square inch in a pint of porridge than a leg of mutton. However
(_tolerantly_), if you really won't, I can recommend the rice and
prunes.

_The Neoph._ (_feebly_). I--I'd rather begin with something a little
more----

_Waitress_ (_with a sad foreknowledge that she is casting pearls before
a swine_). We have "Flageolet Fritters and Cabbage," or "Parsnip Pie
with grilled Potatoes"--both very nice.

_The Neoph._ (_braving the unknown_). I'll have some of
this--er--"Cinghalese Stew." [_He awaits the result in trepidation._

_Customer_ (_behind, dictating his bill_). "What have I had?" Let me
see. Braised turnip and bread sauce, fricassée of carrot and artichoke,
tomato omelette, a jam roll, and a bottle of zoedone.

    [_The_ Waitress _makes out his voucher accordingly, and
    awards it to him, with a bright smile of approval and
    encouragement._

_The Enth. V._ (_who has overheard_). A most excellent selection! That's
a man, Sir, who knows how to _live_! Ha! here's my porridge. Will you
give me some brown sugar with it, please? And--(_to the_ N.)--there's
your stew--smells good, eh?

_The Neoph._ (_tasting it, and finding it a cunning compound of curried
bananas and chicory_). I--I like the _smell_--excellent indeed!

    [_He attacks the stew warily._

_The Enth. Veg._ (_disposing of his porridge_). There! Now I shall have
some lentils and spinach with parsley sauce, and a Welsh rarebit to
follow--and I think that will about do me. Will you--oh, you haven't
finished your stew yet! By the way, what will you drink? I don't often
indulge in champagne in the middle of the day; but it's my birthday--so
I think we might venture on a bottle between us, eh?

_The Neoph._ (_in whom the Cinghalese Stew has excited a lively
thirst_). By all means. I suppose you know the brands here?

_The Veg. Enth._ Only one brand--non-alcoholic, of course. Manufactured
I believe, from--ah--oranges.

_The Neoph._ Exactly so. After all, I'd just as soon have bottled
ale--if they keep it, that is.

_The Veg. Enth._ Any quantity of it. What shall it be? They've
"Anti-Bass Beer," or "Spruce Stout;" or perhaps you'd like to try their
"Pennyroyal Porter?" I'm rather partial to it myself--capital tonic!

_The Neoph._ I--I've no doubt of it. On second thoughts, if you don't
mind, I'd rather have water. (_To himself._) It doesn't _look_
Vegetarian!

_The Veg. Enth._ (_more heartily than ever_). Just as you please, my
boy. But you don't mean to say you've done!

_The Neoph_ (_earnestly_). Indeed, I couldn't touch another morsel,
really!

_The Veg. Enth._ I _thought_ that stew looked satisfying; that's where
it _is_, you see--a man can come here and get a thoroughly nutritious
and filling meal for the trifling sum of fourpence--and yet you meet
people who tell you Vegetarianism is a mere passing fad! It's a force
that's making itself increasingly felt--you must be conscious of that
yourself already?

_The Neoph._ (_politely_). Y-yes--but it's not at all unpleasant at
present--really!

_Enter a couple of_ Red-faced Customers _from the country, who seat
themselves._

_First Redf. C._ Well, I dunno how _you_ 're feelin'--but I feel as if I
could peck a bit.

_Second Do._ I can do wi' soom stokin' myself. Tidy soort of a place
this. 'Ere, Missy!--(_to one of the_ Waitresses, _who awaits his
commands with angelic patience_) you may bring me and my friend a choomp
chop a-piece, not too mooch doon, and a sorsedger, wi' two pots o' stout
an' bitter--an' lo-ook sharp about it!

    [_Sensation--the_ Waitress _gives them, gently, but
    firmly, to understand that these coarse and carnivorous
    propensities must be indulged elsewhere; whereupon they
    depart, rebuked and abashed, as Scene closes._

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

THE Baron, on behalf of small Baronites, thanks Messrs. CASSELL & Co.
for _Fairy Tales in Other Lands_, by JULIA GODDARD, as they are dear old
friends with new faces.

One of the Assistants in the Baronial Office says, that _The Coming of
Father Christmas_ is most exquisitely heralded by E. F. MANNING, in the
daintiest of books. 'Tis published by FREDERICK WARNE & Co. So if you
warne't to make a nice present, you know where to go and get it.

If DEAN AND SON are "limited," their stock is unlimited; and, all things
considered as far as possible, the Baron's Chief Retainer opines that
the picture-books from the Deanery of DEAN AND SON are still the best,
and, in kind, the most varied for children. "Which nobody can Dean-y!"
_The Little One's Own Wonderland_ is a delightful realm, wherein the
very little ones can wander with interest through coloured pictures and
easy fairy tales. Among the coloured picture series, the _Old Mother
Hubbard of_ 1793, with its contrast, _Old Mother Hubbard of To-day_, is
very amusing.

J. S. FRY AND SONS send out through SELL'S Advertising Agency samples of
their daintiest specialities in _bonbonnières_. Being issued by a SELL,
one fears a take in; but as 'tis all good, the agency of SELL secures a
Sale. The chocolates are sure to go down with everyone.

We all know what the sincerest form of flattery is, and certainly our
dear old pet, _Alice in Wonderland_, whose infinite variety time cannot
stale, will gracefully acknowledge the intenseness of the compliments
conveyed in _Olga's Dream_, as written by NORLEY CHESTER, illustrated by
Messrs. FURNISS AND MONTAGU (the illustrations will carry the book), and
published by Messrs. SKEFFINGTON. It would be a preternaturally wise
child who could quite grasp some of the jokes and up-to-date allusions.
However, the real original _Alice_ (_in Wonderland_, and _Through the
Looking-glass_) with the great Master's, JOHN TENNIEL'S, illustrations,
is still, as _Mr. Sam Weller_ said of the Governor, "paramount."

Light and airy are the _Soap Bubble Stories_ blown by FANNY BARRY
through her pen-pipe. Wonder is that, in this advertising age, she
didn't dedicate them to PEARS.

The Baron's Assistant has a word to say about the Diaries for this next
year. If you want a useful Diary, the B. A. would recommend the
"Registered Back-loop Pocket Diary," got up, like a sportsman, in the
best of leathers by JOHN WALKER & Co., or, "as Friend JOHNNIE observes,"
HENRY IRVING would say--"to put it briefly, 'WALKER--London.'"

The Baron has recently received two books, not strictly speaking
"Christmas Books," though they are, _et cela va sans dire_, books
published at Christmas-tide, the one practical and parliamentary, the
other philosophical and phenomenal; the former dedicated to the Right
Honourable ARTHUR BALFOUR by LUCY, and the latter dedicated to Lord
HALIFAX by LILLY. Two prettier names for authors, or rather, to judge of
the writers' sex by the sound of the names, for authoresses, could not
well be chosen. But authors masculine they are, the pair of them. Mr. W.
S. LILLY is to be congratulated on his very taking title, _The Great
Enigma_, and all classes of readers will be glad to be informed that it
has nothing whatever to do with the Irish Question. If any reader
expects to find the Great Enigma solved by the LILLY who toils and
spins, then he must not be surprised if the author says to him in
effect, "_Davus sum, non Oedipus._"

From _A Diary of the Salisbury Parliament_, by Mr. H. LUCY, anyone can
quaff or sip, just as his thirst for Parliamentary knowledge may be
feverish or moderate, but healthy. It is thoroughly interesting, most
amusing, and really valuable for reference withal. 'Tis written, too, in
so impartial a spirit, that it would be difficult to gather from these
pages to which political Party the Diarist belongs, but for his
exuberant eulogy of the wonderful Grand Old Man. Mr. LUCY is the
Parliamentary PEPYS. The sketches are by an Old Parliamentary Hand,
yclept HARRY FURNISS, and assist the reader unfamiliar with the House of
Commons to form a pretty accurate idea of the men who are, and of the
men who were, and what they wear, and how they wear.

    [Illustration: A Reviewer.]

The most interesting part of JAMES PAYN'S latest novel, _A Stumble on
the Threshold_, to Cambridge men or Camford men (for in this story the
names are synonymous), will be the small-beer chronicle of small College
life in their University some thirty years ago. The slang phrases of
that remote period are perhaps somewhat confused with those of a more
modern time, just as an old Dutch Master will introduce his own native
town and the costume of his fellow-countrymen into a picture
representing some great Scriptural subject, thus bringing it, so to
speak, up to date, and giving us an artistic realisation of what may be
concisely termed "the historic present." In the second volume (this
novel is complete in two volumes) the sketches of river-life, including
a delightful one of the old lock-keeper, are refreshingly breezy. The
story, slight in itself, is skilfully worked out; and the only
disappointing part of it--that is, at least to the Baron's thinking--is,
that the villain of the earlier part of the tale does not turn up again
as the real culprit, though the Baron is certain that every reader must
expect him to do so, and must feel quite sure that, in spite of the
author's reticence on the subject, it was _he_ who really committed the
murder, and escaped even the author's detection, unless, out of sheer
soft-heartedness towards the puppets of his own creation, JAMES PAYN
knowingly let him off at the last moment. The judicial portion of the
novel, including the scene in the Coroner's court, is just what would
have been expected from an impartial "J.P."

       *       *       *       *       *

A DEGREE BETTER.--The Degree of Doctor of Music is to be revived at
Cambridge. The duties will be to attend ailing Musicians and Composers.
When appointed, the Doctor will go out to Monte Carlo, or thereabouts,
to see how Sir ARTHUR SULLIVAN is getting on. Sir ARTHUR will, of
course, regulate his conduct at the tables by the prescriptions of his
Medical Adviser.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. WAGGSTAFF AND HIS DOCTOR.--He was ordered by his Doctor to walk two
miles a day. "Can't do it in London," was the patient's reply; "never
walk more than one mile. But," he said, brightening up, "I'll go to
Paris, as one mile there is equal to double the distance in England.
How's that? I'll tell you. I do half a mile out, half a mile back: one
mile; _et voilà two_!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"LITTLE TICH" AND "COLLINS."--The former, not the _Little Tich_ of Drury
Lane Pantomime, but Sir HENRY TICHBORNE, Bart., has, for absence of mind
and body, thus not fulfilling his duties as High Sheriff, been fined by
Mr. Justice COLLINS five hundred pounds--_quids pro quo_--unless he can
show some just cause or impediment. "He wants TICH-ing up a bit,"
thought Mr. Justice, but he didn't say so.

       *       *       *       *       *

REPORTS OF CRACKERS.--If among our old friend SPARAGNAPANE & Co.'s
Crackers there are any that will "go off" better than others it will be
those called _The True Lovers' Code Cosaques_. This is the latest
addition to the School-Board Education Code for the Christmas Holidays.

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Illustration: "SET A THIEF TO CATCH A THIEF!"

    _Mrs. Brown_ (_a victim of secret social ambitions_).
    "OH, AS FOR POOR MRS. ROBINSON, _HER_ ONLY OBJECT IN
    LIFE IS TO DROP ALL HER OLD FRIENDS AND KNOW TITLED
    PEOPLE! ISN'T IT LOATHSOME AND SICKENING?"

    _Mrs. Jones_ (_who is consumed inwardly by just the same
    desire_). "YES, INDEED, IF IT'S TRUE! BUT WHAT MAKES YOU
    THINK SHE WANTS ANYTHING SO _UTTERLY_ DESPICABLE AND
    MEAN?"

    _Mrs. Brown_ (_naïvely_). "BECAUSE SHE WAS SO PRECIOUS
    HARD ON MRS. SMITH FOR TRYING TO KNOW LORD AND LADY
    SNOOKS!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE MISSING WORD." (?)

    THIS is "The Maiden All Forlorn," bowed
      down with burdens scarce to be borne,
    Waiting a blast on Hope's clarion horn, loud
      as the "Cock that crew in the morn."
    Bucolic, wheat-crowned, she--_Micawber_
      seems she, waiting for something to turn up--somehow.
    Poor Agriculture! Care's merciless vulture
      has harried her vitals, and furrowed her brow.

    All are her friends--so each talker pretends--
      from CHAPLIN the cheery, to WINCHILSEA wise,
    And valorous MUNTZ, who the land-question
      shunts, and "goes the whole hog" for Protection and rise;
    With rollicking LOWTHER, who's no Malagrowther,
      but larkily hints that the look-out is mournful;
    And NETHERSOLE, rustic and most nubibustic,
      of law and of logic complacently scornful.

    Poor latter-day Ceres! Quidnuncs and their
      queries will hardly restore her her loved long-lost daughter,
    (Fair Profits) whom Pluto ("the Foreigner")
      stole. Vainly landlords and farmers breathe forth fire and slaughter
    At Free Trade--that Circe on whom they've
      no mercy,--and howl down the speeches of those she's enchanted.
    The one "Missing Word" may sound wholly
      absurd to cool sense, but to them 'tis the one thing that's wanted.

    HOARE's wrath fiercely waxes. Reduction
      of Taxes? Low Rents? More improvements in modes of production?
    Pooh! SAUNDERS and RILEY must be far
      more wily to get _him_ to yield to their Red Rad seduction.
    He stands midst his ruins (like MARIUS) making
      of faith in Protection an open confession.
    'Tis Duties on Food will alone do us good,
      nought else can now cure "the prevailing depression."

    The Missing Word! Maiden Forlorn, 'tis a
      poser you put to the country, the cliques, and the classes,
    The Landlord, The Farmer, the Labourer!
      Say they agree, what response may you hope from "the Masses."
    Those tiresome "Consumers"? Old myths
      and new rumours are like the East wind, Maiden, mighty unfilling;
    Bucolic ideas and crude panaceas won't help
      you, though with them all Fad-dom is thrilling.

    Yes, Fads make strange bedfellows, WINCHILSEA
      tells us, in this far more wise than he's wholly aware of.
    But CHAPLIN-_cum_-WALSH cannot turn back
      time's tide. And _Punch_, who _all_ interests has to take care of,
    Must tell you in kindness, that only sheer
      blindness can say of Protection the true Missing Word it is,
    Though men, my poor Maiden, with worries
      o'erladen, will lend ear to Quackdom's most arrant absurdities!

       *       *       *       *       *

Suggestions for New Musical Publications.

A COMPANION to _The Stars of Normandy_, to be entitled, _The North
Pole-Star_ (the words by COLD-WETHERBY), to be sung by CHARLES VERY
CHILLEY. If sung at St. James's Hall, admission generally, one shilling.
Freeze-seats, nothing.

"_The Carnival_" is announced, as "MOLLOY'S last hit." We hope not. We
trust that it is only Misther JAMES MOLLOY's _latest_ hit. "Never say
die!"

As a companion to "_Come Dance the Romaika_," will be published, "_Come
Read the Romeike_," set up and composed by the Press Cutting Agency.

       *       *       *       *       *

RATHER STARTLING.--A Correspondent sends us a cutting from a paper:--

    "Mr. MOODY, the Evangelist, who was a passenger on the
    _Spree_, ... preached an able discourse."

She says, "I can read no more to-day. Mr. MOODY, as 'a passenger on the
_Spree_,' is too much for my feelings." As _Joe_ said to _Pip_, "What
larks!" Yours truly, SHOCKED!

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Illustration: "THE MISSING WORD." (?)

    ["The Agricultural Conference unhappily seems to have
    made up its mind to defy the recognised laws of
    economic science, instead of endeavouring to adapt
    their farming methods to them. The first of the two
    operative resolutions passed yesterday was an
    undisguised proposal for the re-adoption of
    Protection."--_The Times._]]


       *       *       *       *       *

THE MAN WHO WOULD.

IV.--THE MAN WHO WOULD BE A CRITIC.

ST. BARBE, as a literary man and critic, always professed a desire to
live in a quiet neighbourhood. Therefore, as I approached his house, on
the almost inaccessible slopes of Campden Hill, I was amazed to see a
large and increasing crowd assembled in the vicinity. Pushing my way
through, I saw that St. BARBE'S windows were broken, glass was in a weak
minority in the panes, and, what was more singular, the breakage seemed
to be done _from within_! Objects were flying out into the garden, and
those objects were books. I had the curiosity and agility to catch a few
as they fell, and to pick others up. They were mostly volumes of Poetry,
and, in every case, they bore ST. BARBE'S name on the fly-leaf, with a
flattering manuscript inscription by the author. Some of the authors'
names were unknown to me; in others I recognised ladies of title whom I
had read about in the Society Journals. Urging my way through a hot fire
of octavos, I rang the bell. The maid who opened the door said, "You're
not an Interviewer, Sir?"

"Great Heavens, no!" I replied.

"It is lucky for you, Sir; he's got an air-gun, and winged two
Interviewers to-day, and shot one in the hat."

"I am a friend of Mr. ST. BARBE'S." I explained, scarcely audible amidst
the yells of that man of letters.

"He's awful bad to-day, Sir, assaulted a parcels-delivery man, who was
too heavy for him."

So speaking, the maid led me to ST. BARBE'S study. He was now quiet, and
only groaning softly as he reposed on the sofa; the fragments of
furniture and the torn letters which covered the floor, proved, however,
that the crisis had been severe, for a man who likes a quiet
neighbourhood. I felt his pulse, injected morphine, and asked him how he
did?

"Better," said ST. BARBE, feebly. "I've been clearing them out."

"Clearing what out?" I asked.

"Presentation copies of books, from the authors," he said; and added,
"and the devils of publishers."

At this moment the postman knocked, and the maid brought in some letters
with an air of anxiety.

ST. BARBE tore the envelopes open, "There, and there, and there!" he
cried, thrusting them into my hands, while his features bore a satanic
expression of hatred and contempt.

As he seemed to wish it, I read his correspondence, while he absently
twirled the poker in his hands, and gnashed his teeth.

"What is the matter with you, old man?" I asked. "These notes seem to be
very modestly and properly expressed:--

"DEAR SIR,--You will be astonished at receiving a letter from a total
stranger; but the sympathy of our tastes, which I detect in all you
write, induces me to send you my little work on _The Folk Lore of Tavern
Signs_."

Here ST. BARBE sat down on the hearth, and scattered ashes on his head,
in a manner unbecoming an Englishman.

"_I_ don't see what annoys you so," I remarked, "or in this:--

"DEAR MR. ST. BARBE,--You will not remember me, but I met you once at
Lady CAERULEA SMITHFIELD'S, and therefore I take the liberty of sending
you my little book of verses."

Here he rolled on the floor and gnawed the castor of a chair. I had
heard of things like this in the time of the PLANTAGENETS, but I never
expected to see nowadays such ferocity of demeanour.

"It is signed MARY MIDDLESEX," I said. "She's very pretty, and a
Countess, or something of that sort. What's the matter with you?"

"Try the next," he said.

    [Illustration: "Poor fellow! he is now under
    restraint."]

"MY DEAR SIR,--Being well aware of the interest you take in the
fragments of DIONYSIUS SCYTOBRACHION, I have requested my publisher to
send you my little work on his _Quelle_. BOUNDER, as you are aware"----
Here he pitched his clock into the mirror, and groaned audibly. I tried
another:--

"DEAR MR. ST. BARBE,--I know how busy you are, but you can always spare
an hour or two for the work of a friend. My _Love well Lost_, in three
volumes, is on its way to you. I wish you to review it in all the
periodicals with which you are connected. Last time I wrote a novel, my
nephew reviewed it, very perfunctorily, in the _Pandrosium_; this time I
want only to be reviewed by my _friends_." He was kicking on the sofa,
and apparently trying to commit suicide with the pillows.

"Command yourself, ST. BARBE," I said; "this behaviour is unworthy
either of a Christian or a philosopher. These letters, which irritate
you so much, are conceived in a spirit of respectful admiration. The
books which you have been heaving through the window are, no doubt, of
interest and value."

"Waste paper, every one of them," he moaned. Then he added, as he
rumpled his hair in a frantic manner, "I'd like to see _you_, old cock,
if you had to live this life! It isn't living, it's answering humbugging
letters, and opening brown-paper parcels, all day long, all the weary
day. And my temper, which was angelic, and my manners, which were the
mirror of courtesy, are irretrievably ruined. And my time is wasted, and
my stationer's bill is mere perdition. It begins in the morning; I try
to be calm; I sit down to write replies to all these pestilent idiots."

"Your admirers?" I said.

"They're _not_ admirers; they only cadge for reviews. Time was, they
say, when critics were bribed. Ha! ha! _Now_ they all expect to be
praised for nothing. And the parcels of books they send." Here I noticed
a London Parcels Delivery van, laden with brown-paper packages of books.
Quickly the maid rushed out, and induced the driver to remember that he
was a family man, and he went on his way without calling.

"They come all day long," my poor friend went on, "and all of them are
trash, rubbish that they shoot here; _shoot_, ha! ha'" and he took down
a Winchester rifle, and crept stealthily to the window. Luckily none of
his enemies were in view.

"No waste-paper basket is big enough to hold them all," he said,
ruefully, "and once a week I make a clearance. The neighbours are
beginning to murmur," he added, "There is no sympathy, in England, for a
man of letters. Letters, indeed! I write them all day to these
impostors, these amateurs;" and he bit a large piece out of a glass,
which was standing handy.

"Is there no way of escaping from this persecution?" I asked, with
sympathy.

"None--none! I have written to the _Times_; I have applied to the
Magistrates; I have penned letters which might melt the heart of a
stone; I have even been unmannerly, I fear, now and then, for I cannot
_always_ dissemble! No!" he cried, "I am doomed,--

    'Presentation copies sore Long time he bore'--

write that on my sepulchre."

Here he broke down, and wept like a child. Poor fellow! he is now under
restraint, and I expect soon to hear that we have lost ST. BARBE, at
heart a kind, benevolent man, but sorely treated by authors. Such are
the dangers of a critical career, and so wearing are the facilities of
the Parcels Post. Others may perish like him, men deserving of a better
fate. But to appeal to authors for mercy is vain, I know; far from
sympathising with taste and culture in distress, they actually complain
that they are harshly treated by critics. They little know what they
themselves inflict.

       *       *       *       *       *

DIARY OF A STATESMAN.

("_Made in France._")

_Monday._--Immense enthusiasm. The Ministry never so strong. When asked
my intentions, replied, "My intentions are the intentions of my
country." They nearly shook my hand off in their delight. Grand official
reception in the evening. Everyone there. All the Diplomatic body
offered congratulations.

_Tuesday._--Ministry suddenly threatened by an unseen danger. Everything
going smoothly, when someone in the back benches interrogated us about
an open window in the corridors. Considering the question frivolous,
declined to answer. Enormous excitement, all the Members shaking their
fists, and gesticulating. "Urgency" asked for. We protested; and, after
a heated debate, secured the passing to the Order of the Day _pur et
simple_ by a majority of two! Too close to be pleasant.

_Wednesday._--We have been defeated! The window incident was renewed.
The Minister of Justice explained that it was the accidental
carelessness of a Commissionnaire of Police. Although the man was brave,
and crippled by a wound, the Chamber demanded his immediate dismissal.
We protested. "Urgency" was voted by a majority of 343, and we
immediately resigned. Bore to have to pack up!

_Thursday._--Have refused to join no less than five combinations. Too
dangerous. None of them seemed sufficiently stable. Six men have been
tried, but at present without result. Well, if nothing is done by
to-morrow morning, I shall go into the country for a little shooting.
_Fido_ is quite ready--he has his coat out, his moustache curled, and
can carry a bag in his mouth. He is very good at tricks too. Altogether
a thorough sporting dogue.

_Friday._--Back again. Others being unable to form a Cabinet, have
formed one myself. Think it will hold together, but one never knows. So
far we have had an overwhelming vote of confidence. Put it to the
Members whether we might do what we pleased with the windows. "Yes," and
"Urgency" voted almost simultaneously. No doubt a veritable triumph!

_Saturday._--Everything went smoothly until the afternoon, when a Deputy
wished to know the correct time. Minister of Education gave it as a
quarter to six. It was proved that he was wrong. He should have said ten
minutes to the hour. Serious Ministerial crisis in consequence. Fearful
excitement. A Bill brought in and passed legalising everything that four
men and a boy might decide. Ministry forced to protest; turned out in
consequence. Base ingratitude; but a time will come! Generally hop in
and out of office twice in a fortnight. Quite accustomed to it. Good
exercise.

_Sunday._--Released from my Ministerial duties. Shall have a day's
shooting with _Fido_ in consequence. But I must be back again to-night,
because I am sure to be expected to form a New Ministry to-morrow!

       *       *       *       *       *

_Query._--Why cannot Mr. GLADSTONE eat more than two-thirds of a rabbit,
whether boiled or curried? _Answer._--It does not matter what Mr.
GLADSTONE or anybody else can do, as nobody can eat _a rabbit (w)hole_.

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Illustration: KINDLY MEANT.

    "WHERE ARE YOU STAYING? I'LL CALL AND SEE YOU."

    "DON'T! YOU'LL ONLY THINK THE WORSE OF ME WHEN YOU SEE
    MY SURROUNDINGS!"

    "OH, MY DEAR FELLOW, THAT'S _IMPOSSIBLE_, YOU KNOW!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"SMALL BY DEGREES, AND BEAUTIFULLY LESS."

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I see that the authorities at Monte Carlo very properly
have refused permission to Doctors, their wives and families, to visit
the tables of the Casino. I have not yet ascertained the reason for the
prohibition, but no doubt it is because the "powers that be" consider
Physicians too valuable to the community to run the risk of endangering
their lives in the excitement of play. If we may accept this as a basis,
we can see how the idea can be developed. If it is right to exclude
Doctors, why then, as a kindred class, Lawyers should also be refused
admission. Of course Clergymen of all denominations are, even now,
conspicuous by their absence. If they are not, the decree of banishment
should refer also to the wearers of the cloth.

We have now got rid of Doctors, Lawyers, and Parsons--three of the
Professions. To be consistent, we must take the fourth. This will
prevent Musicians from gambling. But if Musicians are tabooed, why not
Actors? And if Actors, why not Artists? And if we except Artists, we
must join Literature and Science, or there might be jealousy. And now we
have excluded Doctors, Lawyers, Parsons, Musicians, Actors, Artists,
Authors, Men of Science, and everyone more or less connected with them.

Now we must remember what is bad for the master must be equally bad for
the man. So if a Doctor is excluded, a Chemist, an Undertaker, and a
Grave-digger would also be kept away. A Lawyer would carry with him
Judges, Magistrates, Clerks, and Law Stationers. The Clergy would
represent everyone connected with a church, from an Archbishop to a
Bell-ringer. Then, if we are to take away the Professions, Commerce must
follow--wholesale and retail. In one blow we keep out of the rooms
nearly the entire community.

Still there are the Army, the Navy, and the Civil Service. But these are
all more or less branches of the original class. They, like the Doctors,
work for the public good. Without an Army and Navy and a Civil Service,
how would the State exist? So they must go. And now we have very little
left. We have lost the Doctors, the Clergy, the Lawyers, the
Contributors to Fine Arts, the Merchants, the Traders, and the Servants
of the Crown. Naturally the lower orders would follow the lead of the
upper classes, and then there would be only the Croupiers left. And as
the Croupiers may not play themselves, and would have the play of no one
to superintend, they, too, might be excused, as their labour would be in
vain.

And now having reduced the visitors of the tables to an unknown
quantity, I may disappear myself. Yours retiringly,

    _Spanish Castle, Isle of Skye._ AN EX-X.

       *       *       *       *       *

A RUSH OF ONE.--The _Times_, a few days ago, alluding to the unemployed
loafer, said, "it is he who flocks" to Relief Committees, and so forth.
How delightful to be able to flock all by yourself! It recalls the bould
Irish soldier who "took six Frenchmen prisoners by surrounding them"?

       *       *       *       *       *

THE GRAMMAR OF ART.--"Art," spell it with a big or little "a," can never
come first in any well-educated person's ideas. "I am" must have the
place of honour; then "Thou Art!" so apostrophised, comes next.

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Illustration: ROYAL ACADEMICIANS AT MILLBANK.

    ("We understand that Millbank Prison, the site offered
    by Sir WILLIAM HARCOURT for the National Gallery of
    British Art, has been accepted by Mr. TATE."--_Morning
    Papers._)]

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Illustration: For Sail or Return.]

FROM PENCIL TO PEN.

(_A Story of the Merry Yule-Tide Season._)

_Publisher's Sanctum._ Publisher _and_ Author _discovered in
conference_.

_Publisher._ And so I thought that, perhaps, with your kind assistance,
we might work off some of the blocks that have been left on our hands
under the unfortunate circumstances I have just related.

_Author._ Certainly. Quite easy. You want to get a Christmas Number out
of them. All right--give me the subjects, and I will just jot down how
they shall be worked in. We will commence--hero and heroine--say, for
the moment, _Edwin_ and _Angelina_.

_Pub._ (_looking at pictures_). I fancy this is intended for somewhere
in the neighbourhood of the North Pole. Sailors surrounded by white
bears on an iceberg.

_Auth._ Very good. _Edwin's_ father was an Arctic explorer. Write under
sketch, "The old man had many a startling adventure in the silent land
of eternal snow." Go on.

_Pub._ Here is, seemingly, a quarrel to the death, in the time of
CHARLES THE SECOND. Ball-room, with Cavaliers and their Ladies. Central
group, a fight with swords. Can we do anything with it?

_Auth._ Why, certainly. _Edwin_ excites the jealousy of _Angelina's_
cousin _Reginald_. The latter calls out the former at a fancy-dress
dance. Label it--"_Captain de Courcy_ was too impatient to wait until
the ball was over, but challenged his rival as the company were on the
eve of going down to supper." Drive on!

_Pub._ This seems rather a puzzle,--a ship sinking in mid-ocean.

_Auth._ The very thing. _Edwin_ having lost all his money on the Stock
Exchange, goes to Australia for more gold. Label--"The storm was
terrific, and the _Belgravia_ had much difficulty in weathering this
gale of almost unprecedented violence". Next, please!

_Pub._ Why here are some sketches of Venice, St. Petersburg, China, and
North Wales.

_Auth._ I can take them _en bloc_. _Edwin_ and _Angelina_, before they
return home, go upon a honeymoon. Work them all in. Anything else?

_Pub._ A man being shot by a company of French soldiers. Is that of any
use?

_Auth._ First-rate fate for the wicked _Reginald_. Goes to France during
the Franco-German War as a Special Correspondent, and is shot as a
Prussian spy. Couldn't be better. Anything else?

_Pub._ A village crowd looking at a representation of "Punch and Judy."

_Auth._ Obviously a recollection of _Edwin's_ schooldays. Label
it--"Sometimes he would join the crowd, watching an exhibition of
perambulating puppets." Anything else?

_Pub._ A man being thrown from his horse into a brook.

_Auth._ All right! _Angelina_ first falls in love with _Edwin_ when
nursing him after an accident in the hunting-field. Label it--"His horse
swerved, and _Edwin_ was thrown with great violence into the water."
Anything else?

_Pub._ A man with a dark lantern looking, I think, at a mile-stone.

_Auth._ _Reginald_, before his death in France, tries to enter
burglariously the dwelling-house of his hated rival. Label--"The
misguided wretch paused for a moment while he examined one of the
mile-stones." Anything further?

_Pub._ Only two. Which shall we have, a happy or a wretched ending?

_Auth._ Either you please. One's as easy as the other. What are they?

_Pub._ First a man dying in the prairie is threatened by a vulture.

_Auth._ Evidently _Edwin_. You see, we have already disposed of the
wicked cousin. What is the other?

_Pub._ Oh, the conventional thing--bridal party in a village church. I
wish we could use both.

_Auth._ So we can. Cut down bridal block, and punch out enough of sky in
prairie to make room for it. Then give the legend, "And _Edwin_ died
happily, for in his vision he saw his love once more as he had hoped to
see her. With his last breath he blessed her as she stood beside him at
the altar." That will do, and then I can finish off with, "Who knows
they may not meet again? THE END."

_Pub._ And now I want to ask your opinion about some trade
advertisements. I want to know if we can work them in?

    [_Scene closes in upon arrangements of a business-like
    character._

       *       *       *       *       *

THE KISS.

(_By a Jubilant Juryman._)

    [Kissing the Book is now to be dispensed with as part
    of a Juryman's duties.]

    LIP to lip is pleasant altogether,
    But there is no charm in lip to leather
    All the bards who've sung of osculation,
    Down from OVID to song's last sensation,
    Could not lend romance, or even sense,
    To the Court's poor labial pretence,
    Always meaningless, and most unpleasant.
    Here the past _is_ bettered by the present.
    Kissing is the due of Love and Beauty,
    Dull and dismal when 'tis made mere duty.
    Mere lip-loyalty to Love means little--
    But to Truth? 'Tis not worth jot or tittle!
    When from lip to lip in cold formality
    Passed the grubby cover, in reality
    Binding kissing made no oath more binding
    Nor more easy Justice's clear finding.
    Therefore, thanks to common sense,--long missing--
    That makes obsolete _one_ form of kissing!

       *       *       *       *       *

"THERE AND BACK."

FIRST night at Covent Garden of new Opera, _Irmengarda_, by Chevalier,
not Chevalier Coster, but Chevalier EMIL BACH. In this plot the women of
a besieged city are allowed to leave it, carrying whatever is most
precious on their backs--but this one BACH can't carry _Irmengarda_,
which is, however, not too, too precious, but is supportable. Sir
DRURIOLANUS OPERATICUS "gives a Back," and it's "Over!" First Act, while
performing, is promising; second very much after, or behind the first.
House full. Everybody good, specially VALDA and ABRAMOFF. Mr. ARMBRUSTER
conducted the MASCAGNI-_cum_-WAGNER-&-CO. music. Everybody happy,
specially BACH himself, who was not backwards in coming forwards, and
bowing his acknowledgments.

By the way, as in Act III. the King enters "a-riding a-riding," this
Opera may be distinguished from any of BACH'S future works by being
called The Horse-BACH Opera. Not to exhaust the punning possibilities in
the name of the composer, it may be incidentally noted that, original
and fresh as every air in this Opera may be, yet this present work
consists entirely of "BACH Numbers." No more on this subject at present.

Last week of Opera by night at Covent Garden, as the Garden is turned
into a Race-course for _The Prodigal Daughter's_ steeplechase, and Drury
Lane is wanted for the Pantomime. Sir DRURIOLANUS has his hands
full--likewise his pockets. "So mote it be!"

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Illustration]

TO MY PARTNER.

    "MISS RED SASH"--my programme can't even relate
     Your name, and I know nothing more
    Of your tastes. Do you talk of high Art--or the state
                        Of the floor?

    Has Girton or Newnham endeavoured to clog
     With stiffest of science your brain;
    Or are you prepared to discourse of the fog
                        And the rain?

    Do politics please you? Uganda, perhaps,
      Or the Cabinet crisis in France?
    Or would you remark that a great many chaps
                        Never dance?

    Is IBSEN your idol, with plays that are noise,
      Some say nauseous; is he a sage?
    Or are you contented to see a live horse
                        On the stage?

    You love PADEREWSKI, and would not be false
      To your faith in BRAHMS, GRIEG, WAGNER and
    CO.; or you are awfully pleased with this valse,
                        And this Band?

    I'll fan you, and hear if you then will repeat
      Facts on currents of air, or simoom;
    Or simper, and smilingly speak of the heat
                        Of the room.

       *       *       *       *       *

A GOOD "SECOND".--A Dutch Oyster.

       *       *       *       *       *

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.