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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 107.

OCTOBER 20, 1894.




                          OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

The Assistant-Reader has been at work, and makes the following report:--

A pretty little volume is Mr. ANTHONY C. DEANE'S _Holiday Rhymes_ (HENRY
& CO). That its merits are high may be safely inferred from the fact
that the largest instalment of its verses came from the columns of _Mr.
Punch_. Mr. DEANE handles his varied metres with great skill, his style
is neat and pointed, his rhymes are above reproach, and his satire,
especially when he deals with literary and academic matters, hits hard
and straight. And, though the author is a Deane, he never sermonises.
But why not sermons in verse? I commend the idea to Mr. DEANE. He could
carry it out excellently, and earn the thanks of countless
congregations.

                             [Illustration]

Messrs. METHUEN are publishing a series of English Classics, edited by
Mr. W. E. HENLEY. They have started with _Tristram Shandy_, and have
persuaded a Mr. CHARLES WHIBLEY to introduce LAURENCE STERNE to the
reading public of the present day. "Permit me," says Mr. WHIBLEY, in
effect, "to present to your notice LAURENCE STERNE, plagiarist,
sentimentalist, and dealer in the obscene," a right pleasant and
comfortable introduction, setting us all at our ease, and predisposing
us at once in favour of the humble candidate for fame, whom Mr. WHIBLEY
alternately kicks and patronises. 'Tis pity (I have caught Mr. WHIBLEY'S
own trick) that Mr. WHIBLEY had not the writing of _Tristram Shandy_.
He, at any rate--so he seems to think--would never have outraged our
sense of decency, or moved us to "thrills of æsthetic disgust" by such
platitudes as _My Uncle Toby's_ address to the fly. RABELAIS, it appears
(Mr. WHIBLEY has got RABELAIS on the brain, he is Pantagruelocephalous),
RABELAIS may steal a horse, but STERNE must not look over a hedge. One
may have no wish to defend the "indecencies" of STERNE, but to condemn
them by contrasting them with the efforts of RABELAIS is a highly
modernised form of criticism, of which I should scarcely have supposed
even a WHIBLEY capable. On the whole, I cannot commend this
introduction, with its jingling, tin-pot, sham-fantastic style. I feel
inclined to cry out aloud with Master _Peter_, "Plainness, good boy; do
not you soar so high; this affectation is scurvy." And why is Mr.
WHIBLEY so hard upon the suburbs? His own manner of writing is
excellently calculated to fascinate Clapham, and move Peckham Rye to an
enthusiasm of admiration.

Messrs. CHATTO AND WINDUS have brought to a happy conclusion their
monumental work of republishing the CAMPBELL AND STEBBING translation of
_Thiers' History of the Consulate and Empire_. It is in twelve neatly
bound, conveniently sized, admirably printed volumes, illustrated with
many steel engravings. A little soon, perhaps, to talk of Christmas
presents. But if there be any amiable uncle or fairy godmother kept
awake o' nights wondering what they shall give for Christmas box to
Dick, Tom or Harry, here's the very thing for him, her and them. The
volumes comprise a library in themselves, and their study is a liberal
education. Since the world began there is no human life that possesses
for humanity an interest keener or more abiding than that of NAPOLEON.
Sometimes for a while it seems to sleep, only to awaken with freshened
vigour. The NAPOLEON cult is one of the most prominent features of
to-day. The Presses of Paris, London and New York teem with new volumes
of reminiscences, letters or diaries, all about NAPOLEON. THIERS'
massive work has stood the test of time and will ever remain a classic.
To us who read it to-day it has the added interest of its author's
personality, and the sad labour of his closing years. It is pretty to
note how THIERS, writing before the creation of the Third Empire, for
which this book did much to pave the way, shrinks from mentioning
Waterloo. For him it is "the battle after the day of Ligny and Quatre
Bras." We are well into his detailed account of the great fight before
we recognise the plains of Waterloo. THIERS does not disguise his effort
to extol the Prussians at the expense of the English. It was BLUCHER,
not WELLINGTON, who won the fight the Prussians call the Battle of La
Belle Alliance, NAPOLEON the Battle of Mont St. Jean, and the
presumptuous English Waterloo. The patriotic and therefore irascible
Frenchman little thought the day would dawn on France when it would
learn of a battle more calamitous even than Waterloo. Still less did he
perpend that he himself would make the personal acquaintance of the
Prussians in circumstances analagous to those amid which, on a July day
in 1815, three plenipotentiaries set forth from Paris to meet the
foreign invaders, and sue for terms that should, as far as possible,
lessen the humiliation of the occupation of the French capital.

I confess I am disappointed with ANTHONY HOPE'S _The God in the Car_.
Some of the dialogue is in his very best "Dolly" comedy-vein. The last
interview between hero and heroine is admirably written. But it is not
"in it" with his most originally conceived story of _The Prisoner of
Zenda_. The title requires explanation, and you don't get the
explanation until the climax, which explanation is as unsatisfactory as
the title. "The hazy finish is," quoth the Baron, "to my thinking,
artistic." "What becomes of the lady? what becomes of the lover?" are
questions the regular romance-reader will put. And the reply is
evidently the old one, on which no improvement is possible, "Whatever
you please my little dear, you pays your money and you takes your
choice." But it is well worth reading, and our friend "the Skipper," who
"knows the ropes," will find there are some, though not very frequent,
opportunities for his mental gymnastic exercise.

                                            THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

                               * * * * *

                        AN EPICURE TO HIS LOVE.

  My Queen, Mayonnaise! Oh, give ear to thy lover--
    Oh, pity his passion, my sweet Mayonnaise!
  Just one glance from those eyes which (like eggs of the plover!)
    Can kill--(or be cooked)--in a hundred of ways!

  When first I beheld thee my thoughts flew unbidden
    To dishes I'd eaten--so fair to the eye.
  That I've looked and I've looked till the flavour they've hidden
    Was forgot at the sight of the dish, or the pie.

                             [Illustration]

  Oh, grant that our loves, like _potage à la crême_,
    Flow gently and smoothly along through the days.
  (To me it's the same, for though MABEL'S thy name,
    To me thou art ever my sweet "Mayonnaise.")

  White as snow are thy teeth that, like _riz à l'Anglaise_,
    Shine forth between lips red as _sauce écrevisse_;
  And the truffle-like beauty-spot nestles and says,
    "Come and kiss next the dimple and taste, dear, of bliss!"

  _Dinde de Bresse_ is not plumper nor fairer than thee;
    And thy gown and its trimmings thy beauties enhance.
  None so sweet in the country of Gruyère and Brie,
    Where St. Sauce counts for more than St. Louis of France.

  Nay, turn not your head. Never blush _portugaise_,
    Be tender as _chaufroid_ of veal _à la reine_--
  (A dish for the gods!--not what Englishmen praise,
    Indigestible veal _qui ne "veau" pas la_ pain!)

  Hot as _sauce rémoulade_ though thy temper may be--
    Though caprice gall thy thoughts till thy brain's _panaché_--
  I'll love thee and love thee--I swear it by THEE!--
    The roast thou shalt rule, by night and by day!

  My Queen, Mayonnaise, oh give ear to my prayer!
    Be my love--be my wife! Come, Mayonnaise dear,
  And to Paris we'll fly, and at BIGNON'S we'll fare,
    And the evening we'll spend at the _Menus_-Plaisirs!

  Though TORTONI'S no more, we may still taste of joy,
    For I wot of a house where a goddess might eat--
  Where the palate's not worried, the dishes don't cloy,
    Where to eat is to live, and to drink is a treat!

  Behold, Mayonnaise, I'm the slave of thy wishes--
    A lover devoted who cannot do less
  Than to set on thy table the daintiest dishes;
    So the man thou mayst love, while the cook thou dost bless.

                               * * * * *

NEW ARRANGEMENT OF MOTTO FOR THE FRENCH (_Suggested
Gallus Anti-Gallicanus_).--"_Liberté, Ill-égalité, Fraternité!_"

                               * * * * *

                          A CLERICAL QUESTION
                              FOR EXETER.

The Special Correspondent "doing" the Church Congress at Exeter for the
_Morning Post_, when remarking on the clerical costumes in the
procession to the Cathedral, told us that among the "college caps"
_i.e._ "mortar-boards," (which of course go with the university gown or
clerical surplice,) and "birettas," (which, being Italian, are not
certainly part of English academical or ecclesiastical costume,) there
appeared a "tall hat," _i.e._ the topper of private life, which, as it
happens, is part of the Academical Master of Arts costume, and
therefore, though unbecoming in a procession of mortar-boards and
birettas, is yet unassailable from a purely academic and Cantabrigian
point of view. It may not be "Oxonian," by the way; but if the wearer
were an Oxford man he would know best. Now, if the hat, presumably
black, had been _a white one_? White is the surplice: why not the hat?
White is the emblem of purity, although, sad to say, when associated
with a hat, it used at one time to be provocative of an inquiry as to
the honesty of the wearer in regard to the surreptitious possesion of a
donkey. Has anybody anywhere ever seen a parson, whether M.A. or not, in
a white hat? Surely such a phenomenon must rank with the defunct postboy
and dead donkey. This will be one of the inquiries to which clerical
costume at ecclesiastical Exeter must naturally give rise. Perhaps the
top-hatted clergyman was a Freemason, wearing this as emblematic of a
"tiled lodge."

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: IN THE WILDS OF THE NORTH.

_Hungry Saxon (just arrived, with equally hungry family)._ "WELL,
NOW--ER--WHAT CAN YOU GIVE US FOR DINNER, AS SOON AS WE'VE HAD A WASH?"

_Scotch Lassie._ "OH, JIST ONYTHING!"

_H. S. (rubbing his hands in anticipation)._ "AH! NOW WE'LL HAVE A NICE
JUICY STEAK."

_Lassie._ "A--WEEL. WE'LL BE HAEIN' SOME STEAK HERE MAYBE BY THE BOAT I'
THE MORN'S MORN!"

_H. S. (a little crestfallen)._ "OH--WELL--CHOPS THEN. WE'LL SAY MUTTON
CHOPS."

_Lassie._ "OH, AY, BUT WE'VE NO BEEN KILLIN' A SHEEP THE DAY!"

                          [_Ends up with boiled eggs, and vows to remain
                                               at home for the future._]

                               * * * * *

                       "ALL UP WITH THE EMPIRE!"

This is a dreadful cry to raise. Let's hope it is not anywhere near the
truth. Says the Emperor, _i.e._ the chairman of the Empire (Theatre),
"There will be only one effect should the County Council endorse the
decision of its Licensing Committee. The Empire Theatre will be at once
closed, as it would be impossible to carry it on under such absurd
restrictions." Such is the Imperial ukase issuing from Leicester Square.
And the Emperor is right. This "grandmotherly legislation," however
well-intentioned the grandmothers, may be all very well for "babes and
sucklings," but then babies in arms are not admitted to the Empire, and
those babes of older growth who have evidently been partaking too freely
of "the bottle" are strictly excluded by the I. C. O. or Imperial
Chuckers Out. No doubt London common sense will ultimately prevail, even
in the Court of the London County Council, and the Empire will soon be
going stronger than ever.

                               * * * * *

MOTLEY REFLECTION.--What better name for an historian than "MOTLEY"? Not
in the buffoonic sense of the term; not when, to change the spelling,
"Motley is your only _ware_"; but as implying a variety of talents as
equal as the patches in the perfect dress of a harlequin. Of course the
pen is the wand. What transformations cannot the Motley historian bring
about! A monster becomes a man, and a man a monster.

                               * * * * *

          [Illustration: LITTLE AH SID AND THE BUTTERFLY-BEE.]

                               * * * * *

                             LITTLE AH SID;

                   OR THE CHINEE BOY AND THE JAPANESE
                          BUTTERFLY BUMBLEBEE.

              AIR--"_Little Ah Sid._" (_With Apologies to
                           Mr. Louis Meyer._)

      Little AH SID
      Was a lemon-faced kid,
  With a visage as old as an ape's;
      Saffron son-of-a-gun,
      He was fond of his fun,
  And much given to frolics and japes.
      Once in his way,
      As AH SID was at play,
  A big bumblebee flew in the spring.
      "Jap butterfly!"
      Cried he, winking his eye;
  "Me catchee and pull off um wing!"

                               _Chorus._

  "_Kiya, kiya, kyipye, yukakan!
  Kiya, kiya, yukakan!_"
      Sang little AH SID,
      That elderly kid,
  As he went for that bee from Japan.

      He made a sharp snap
      At the golden-ring'd chap,
  That innocent butterfly-bee,
      Which buzzed and which bummed,
      And circled and hummed
  Round the head of that little Chinee.
      He guessed not the thing
      Had no end of a sting,
  As he chased him in malice secure,
      And he cried with a grin,--
      "Buzzy-wuzzy no win!
  Me mashee um buttlefly, sure!"

                               _Chorus._

  "_Kiya, kiya, kyipye, yukakan!
  Kiya, kiya yukakan!_"
      Sang little AH SID,
      The Celestial kid,
  As he after "um buttlefly" ran.

      Little AH SID
      Was a pig-headed kid
  (As well as pig-tailed). Could he guess
      What _kind_ of a fly
      Was buzz-wuzzing hard by,
  Till he grabbed him--with stinging success.
      "_Kiya, kyipye!_"
       Yelled AH SID, as that bee
  Stung him hard in a sensitive spot.
      "_Kiya yukakan!_
      Hang um Japanese man,
  Um buttlefly velly much hot!"

                               _Chorus._

  "_Kiya, kiya, kyipye yukakan!
  Kiya, kiya, yukakan!_"
      Howled hopping AH SID,
      "Um hurt me, um did,
  Um buttlefly bites--in Japan!!!"

                               * * * * *

MODERN MANGERS.--Nearly all hotel advertisements prominently announce as
among the principal attractions of each establishment "_separate
tables_." It looks as if the "all-together-_table-d'hôte_-system" had
failed by reason of "incompatibility of temper." Hence the divorce
_a mensâ_. The long table with all the noses in a row down in the
feeding-trough is by this time a remnant of barbarism. Yet the "boxes"
common to the old eating-houses, such for example, as may still be seen
in some parts of London both east and west, were "pernicious snug" and
sufficiently private, too, for business conversation and confidential
communications.

                               * * * * *

SERIOUS, VERY! LATEST FROM CHINA.--The Emperor has been consulting his
physician, who, after careful diagnosis, has pronounced "TUNG in bad
condition, and LUNG queer."

                               * * * * *

                            LYRE AND LANCET.

                         (_A Story in Scenes._)

               PART XVI.--AN INTELLECTUAL PRIVILEGE.

    SCENE XXV.--_The Chinese Drawing Room._ TIME--_About_ 9.45 P.M.

_Mrs. Earwaker._ Yes, dear Lady LULLINGTON, I've always insisted on each
of my girls adopting a distinct line of her own, and the result has been
_most_ satisfactory. LOUISA, my eldest, is literary; she had a little
story accepted not long ago by _The Milky Way_; then MARIA is musical;
practises regularly three hours every day on her violin. FANNY has
become quite an expert in photography--kodaked her father the other day
in the act of trying a difficult stroke at billiards; a back view--but
_so_ clever and characteristic!

_Lady Lullington (absently)._ A back view? How _nice_!

_Mrs. Earw._ He was the only one of the family who didn't recognise it
at once. Then my youngest, CAROLINE--well, I must say that for a long
time I was quite in despair about CAROLINE. It really looked as if there
was no single thing that she had the slightest bent or inclination for.
So at last I thought she had better take up Religion, and make _that_
her speciality.

_Lady Lull. (languidly)._ Religion! How _very_ nice!

_Mrs. Earw._ Well, I got her a _Christian Year_ and a covered basket,
and quantities of tracts, and so on; but, somehow, she didn't seem to
get _on_ with it. So I let her give it up; and now she's gone in for
poker-etching instead.

_Lady Lull. (by an act of unconscious cerebration)._ Poker-etching! How
very _very_ nice!

                                        [_Her eyelids close gently._

_Lady Rhoda._ Oh, but indeed, Lady CULVERIN, I thought he was perfectly
charmin'; not a bit booky, you know, but as clever as he can stick;
knows more about terriers than any man I ever met!

_Lady Culverin._ So glad you found him agreeable, my dear. I was half
afraid he might strike you as--well, just a little bit _common_ in his
way of talking.

_Lady Rhoda._ Pr'aps--but, after all, one can't expect those sort of
people to talk quite like we do ourselves, _can_ one?

_Lady Cantire._ Is that Mr. SPURRELL you are finding fault with,
ALBINIA? It is curious that _you_ should be the one person here
who----_I_ consider him a very worthy and talented young man, and I
shall most certainly ask him to dinner--or _lunch_, at all events--as
soon as we return. I daresay Lady RHODA will not object to come and meet
him.

_Lady Rhoda._ Rather not. _I_'ll come, like a shot!

_Lady Culv. (to herself)._ I suppose it's very silly of me to be so
prejudiced. Nobody else seems to mind him!

_Miss Spelwane (crossing over to them)._ Oh, Lady CULVERIN, Lady
LULLINGTON has such a _delightful_ idea--she's just been saying how very
very nice it would be if Mr. SPURRELL could be persuaded to read some of
his poetry aloud to us presently. _Do_ you think it could be managed?

_Lady Culv. (in distress)._ Really, my dear VIVIEN, I--I don't know
_what_ to say. I fancy people would so _much_ rather talk--don't you
think so, ROHESIA?

_Lady Cant._ Probably they would, ALBINIA. It is most unlikely that they
would care to hear anything more intellectual and instructive than the
sound of their own voices.

_Miss Spelw._ I _told_ Lady LULLINGTON that I was afraid you would think
it a bore, Lady CANTIRE.

_Lady Cant._ You are perfectly mistaken, Miss SPELWANE. I flatter myself
I am quite as capable of appreciating a literary privilege as anybody
here. But I cannot answer for its being acceptable to the majority.

_Lady Culv._ No, it wouldn't do at all. And it would be making this
young man so _much_ too conspicuous.

_Lady Cant._ You are talking nonsense, my dear. When you are fortunate
enough to secure a celebrity at Wyvern, you can't make him _too_
conspicuous. I never knew that LAURA LULLINGTON had any taste for
literature before, but there's something to be said for her
suggestion--if it can be carried out; it would at least provide a
welcome relief from the usual after-dinner dullness of this sort of
gathering.

_Miss Spelw._ Then--would _you_ ask him, Lady CANTIRE?

_Lady Cant._ I, my dear? You forget that _I_ am not hostess here. My
sister-in-law is the proper person to do that.

_Lady Culv._ Indeed I couldn't. But perhaps, VIVIEN, if you liked to
suggest it to him, he might----

_Miss Spelw._ I'll try, dear Lady CULVERIN. And if my poor little
persuasions have no effect, I shall fall back on Lady CANTIRE, and then
he _can't_ refuse. I must go and tell dear Lady LULLINGTON--she'll be so
pleased! (_To herself, as she skims away._) I generally _do_ get my own
way. But I mean him to do it to please _Me_!

_Mrs. Chatteris_ (_a little later, to_ Lady MAISIE). Have you heard what
a treat is in store for us? That delightful Mr. SPURRELL is going to
give us a reading or a recitation, or something, from his own poems; at
least, Miss SPELWANE is to ask him as soon as the men come in. Only _I_
should have thought that he would be much more likely to consent if
_you_ asked him.

_Lady Maisie._ Would you? I'm sure I don't know why.

_Mrs. Chatt. (archly)._ Oh, he took me in to dinner, you know, and it's
quite wonderful how people confide in me, but I suppose they feel I can
be trusted. He mentioned a little fact, which gave me the impression
that a certain fair lady's wishes would be supreme with him.

_Lady Maisie (to herself)._ The wretch! He _has_ been boasting of my
unfortunate letter! (_Aloud._) Mr. SPURRELL had no business to give you
any impression of the kind. And the mere fact that I--that I happened to
admire his verses----

_Mrs. Chatt._ Exactly! Poets' heads are so easily turned; and, as I said
to Captain THICKNESSE----

_Lady Maisie._ Captain THICKNESSE! You have been talking about it--to
_him_!

_Mrs. Chatt._ I'd no idea you would mind anybody knowing, or I would
never have dreamed of----I've such a perfect _horror_ of gossip! It took
me so much by surprise, that I simply couldn't resist; but I can easily
tell Captain THICKNESSE it was all a mistake; _he_ knows how fearfully
inaccurate I always am.

_Lady Maisie._ I would rather you said nothing more about it, please; it
is really not worth while contradicting anything so utterly absurd. (_To
herself._) That GERALD--Captain THICKNESSE--of all people, should know
of my letter! And goodness only knows what story she may have made out
of it!

_Mrs. Chatt. (to herself, as she moves away)._ I've been letting my
tongue run away with me, as usual. She's _not_ the original of "Lady
Grisoline," after all. Perhaps he meant VIVIEN SPELWANE--the description
was much more like _her_!

_Pilliner_ (_who has just entered with some of the younger men, to_ Miss
SPELWANE). What _are_ you doing with these chairs? Why are we all to sit
in a circle, like MOORE and BURGESS people? You're _not_ going to set
the poor dear Bishop down to play baby-games? How perfectly barbarous of
you!

_Miss Spelw._ The chairs are being arranged for something much more
intellectual. We are going to get Mr. SPURRELL to read a poem to us, if
you want to know. I _told_ you I should manage it.

_Pill._ There's only one drawback to that highly desirable arrangement.
The bard, with prophetic foreknowledge of your designs, has
unostentatiously retired to roost. So I'm afraid you'll have to do
without your poetry this evening--that is, unless you care to avail
yourself again of my services?

_Miss Spelw. (indignantly)._ It is too _mean_ of you. You must have told
him!

                                       [_He protests his innocence._

_Lady Rhoda._ ARCHIE, what's become of Mr. SPURRELL? I particularly want
to ask him something.

_Bearpark._ The poet? He nipped upstairs--as I told you all along he
meant to--to scribble some of his democratic drivel, and (_with a
suppressed grin_) I don't _think_ you'll see him again this evening.

_Captain Thicknesse (to himself, as he enters)._ She's keepin' a chair
next hers in the corner there for somebody. Can it be for that poet
chap?... (_He meets_ Lady MAISIE'S _eye suddenly._) Great Scott! If she
means it for _me_!... I've half a mind not to----No, I shall be a fool
if I lose such a chance! (_He crosses, and drops into the vacant chair
next hers._) I _may_ sit here, mayn't I?

_Lady Maisie_ (_simply_). I meant you to. We used to be such good
friends; it's a pity to have misunderstandings. And--and I want to ask
you what that silly little Mrs. CHATTERIS has been telling you at dinner
about me.

_Capt. Thick._ Well, she was sayin'--and I must say I don't understand
it, after your tellin' me you knew nothing about this Mr. SPURRELL till
this afternoon----

_Lady Maisie._ But I don't. And I--I _did_ offer to explain, but you
said you weren't curious!

_Capt. Thick._ Didn't want you to tell me anything that perhaps you'd
rather not, don't you know. Still, I _should_ like to know how this poet
chap came to write a poem all about you, and call it "Lady Grisoline."
if he never----

_Lady Maisie._ But it's too ridiculous! How _could_ he? When he never
saw me, that I know of, in all his life before!

_Capt. Thick._ He told Mrs. CHATTERIS you were the original of his "Lady
Grisoline" anyway, and really----

_Lady Maisie._ He dared to tell her that? How disgracefully impertinent
of him. (_To herself._) So long as he hasn't talked about my letter, he
may say what he pleases!

_Capt. Thick._ But what _was_ it you were goin' to explain to me? You
said there was somethin'----

_Lady Maisie_ (_to herself_). It's no use; I'd sooner die than tell him
about that letter now! (_Aloud._) I--I only wished you to understand
that, whatever I think about poetry--I detest poets!

_Lady Cant._ Yes, as you say, Bishop, a truly Augustan mode of
recreation. Still, Mr. SPURRELL doesn't seem to have come in yet, so I
shall have time to hear anything you have to say in defence of your
opposition to Parish Councils.

                  [_The_ Bishop _resigns himself to the inevitable._

_Archie_ (_in_ PILLINER'S _ear_). Ink and flour--couldn't possibly miss
him; the bard's got a matted head _this_ time, and no mistake.

      [Illustration: "Ink and flour--couldn't possibly miss him."]

_Pill._ Beastly bad form, _I_ call it--with a fellow you don't know.
You'll get yourself into trouble some day. And you couldn't even manage
your ridiculous booby-trap, for here the beggar comes, as if nothing had
happened.

_Archie_ (_disconcerted_). Confound him! The best booby-trap I _ever_
made!

_The Bishop._ My dear Lady CANTIRE, here is our youthful poet, at the
eleventh hour. (_To himself._) "_Sic me servavit_ Apollo!"

    [Miss SPELWANE _advances to meet_ SPURRELL, _who stands
    surveying the array of chairs in blank bewilderment._

                               * * * * *

                             BRITISH LIONS.

    ["Poor Mrs. LEO HUNTER has fallen on evil days.... It is the
    lions themselves that are lacking.... We have fallen upon an age
    of prancing mediocrity."--_The World, October 10._]

  O dire is our extremity, whose laudable persistence
    In tracking down celebrities is undiminished still,
  We're quick enough to mark our prey, we scent him at a distance,
    But seldom is our watchfulness rewarded by a "kill."

  There are bears indeed in plenty, there are owls with strident voices,
    And jackanapes in modern days are seldom hard to find,
  But the genuine British Lion, in whom our heart rejoices,
    Seems almost to have vanished from the dwellings of mankind!

  And even if we find him, after herculean labour,
    Apart from festive drawing-rooms he resolutely roams,
  Disgracefully forgetful of his duty to his neighbour
    He quite declines to dignify our dinners and At Homes.

  Too often those we ask are unaccountably prevented
    From hastening, as we wanted them, "to come and join the dance,"
  And so, in these degraded times, we have to be contented
    With quite inferior persons, mediocrities who "prance."

  Yes, "prancing mediocrity"--sweet phrase!--no doubt expresses
    The decadent young poet, with the limp and languid air,
  The very last pianist with the too-abundant tresses,
    Whose playing is--well, only less eccentric than his hair.

  So, _Mr. Punch_, we hostesses regard you with affection,
    And now that our calamity and trouble you have heard,
  If any happy circumstance should bring in your direction
    A _really_ nice young lion--would you kindly send us word?

                               * * * * *

NEW NOVEL BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE MANXMAN."--_The Minx-woman._

                                                   [_Not yet ready._

                               * * * * *

                           THE BLUE GARDENIA.

                      (_A Colourable Imitation._)

It was a splendid scarlet afternoon, and the little garden looked its
gayest in the midsummer sunshine which streamed down its tiny paths.
Yellow asters grew golden in the pale lemon light, whilst the green
carnations which abounded everywhere seemed so natural that it was
difficult to believe they had been wired on to the plants that morning
by a London firm of florists. That was a plan on which CECIL PARAGRAPH
always insisted. As he was so fond of saying, Nature was a dear old
thing, but she lacked inventiveness. It was only an outworn convention
which objected to gilding the lily, or colouring the carnation. So the
London florists always came each morning to convert the garden into a
pink rhapsody.

                             [Illustration]

Lord ARCHIE (he was not a Lord really, but CECIL always insisted that a
title was a matter of temperament) and CECIL were sitting out on the
lawn. Clever conversation always takes place on the lawn. CECIL and Lord
ARCHIE smoked high-priced cigarettes. The witty characters always do.

"My dear ARCHIE," said CECIL, "I have something important to tell you."

"If you were not CECIL PARAGRAPH, that would mean that the milkman had
called to have his account paid, or that MARY--or is it MARTHA?--had
given notice. It's like letters headed 'Important,'--a prospectus of a
gold mine, or a letter from a distant relative to say he's coming to
stay the week-end. Saying 'week-end' always reminds me of the BARON DE
BOOK-WORMS. I fancy myself haggling for a cheap ticket at a
booking-office."

"ARCHIE, you've prattled enough. Remember it is I who am expected to
fill the bill. ARCHIE, I am writing a book."

"A book? You will let me collaborate with you?"

"Collaboration is the modern method of evading responsibility. A genius
moves in a cycle of masterpieces, but it is never a cycle made for two.
It reminds me of the book by Mr. RIDER HAGGARD and Mr. LANG. Too late
Mr. HAGGARD found that he had killed the goose which laid the golden
eggs. He had lost the notices which his collaborator could no longer
write."

"But it is so much trouble to write a book. Would not a purple newspaper
article effect your purpose?"

"One would think I was Mr. ATHELSTAN RILEY, or the Independent Labour
Party, to hear you talk of effecting my purpose. But in any case the
book's the thing."

"Tell me, CECIL, tell me about your book," said Lord ARCHIE, with the
ardour of a disciple of CECIL'S.

"It will be called _The Blue Gardenia_. The title is one of the
unemployed; it has nothing to do with the story."

                             [Illustration]

"I fancy I remember that Mr. BARRY PAIN said that once before."

"No doubt. The clumsiness of acknowledgment is what makes the artist
into an artisan. I am like Mr. BALFOUR, I do not hesitate to shoot--into
my treasury the pearls of speech I have gathered from others, and then,
ARCHIE, I shall not lack the art of personal allusion. If my characters
go out into the village and see the village clergymen, I shall make him
the Archbishop of CANTERBURY. People like it. They say it's rude, but
they read the book and repeat the rudeness. I shall be frankly rude.
Minor poets and authors and actors will all be fair game. You suggest
the publisher may object. To tell you the truth, ANY MAN will publish
for me. The book will succeed--it is only mediocrities who indulge in
failure--and the public will tumble over one another in their mad rush
to be dosed with epigrams of genius."

"And I will write a flaming favourable notice in the _Dodo_."

"You will do me no such unkindness, I am sure, my dear ARCHIE. To be
appreciated is to be found out."

And so plucking as they went the green carnations of a blameless life,
they went in to dinner.

                               * * * * *

THE TALE OF J. B.; OR, "THE PRISONER OF SALTA."--"J. B. is sly,
Sir--devilish sly;" but the present J. B., not the _Major Bagstock_ of
_Dombey and Son_, but the minor JABEZ BALFOUR, has not yet, as reported,
managed to escape from the prison of Salta, the authorities having
contrived to put a little Salt-a'pon his tail. _Il y est, il y reste._

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: FELICITOUS QUOTATIONS.

_Hostess (of Upper Tooting, showing new house to Friend)._ "WE'RE VERY
PROUD OF THIS ROOM, MRS. HOMINY. OUR OWN LITTLE UPHOLSTERER DID IT UP
JUST AS YOU SEE IT, AND ALL OUR FRIENDS THINK IT WAS _LIBERTY_!"

_Visitor (sotto voce)._ "'OH, LIBERTY, LIBERTY, HOW MANY CRIMES ARE
COMMITTED IN THY NAME!'"]

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: "VESTED INTERESTS."

HOUSE OF LORDS CHARWOMAN. "WELL! THEM ROGEBERRIES, AND 'ERBERT
GLADSTINGS, AND HASKWIDGES, AND THE REST ON 'EM MAY TORK--AND THEY MAY
TORK--BUT THEY H'AINT TURNED _HUS_ OUT YET!!"]

                               * * * * *

                          "VESTED INTERESTS."

_Lady in Possession loquitur_:--

  Ah, well! They keeps a rouging up, these papers, or a trying to,
  But _I_ don't think they'll oust us yet, as hobvious they're a-dying
        to.
  Their ROGEBERRIES, and their HASKWIDGES and 'ERBERT GLADSTINGS 'urry
        up,
  As per wire-pulling horders; and they tries to keep the flurry up,
  But somehow it's a fizzle, like a fire as keeps on smouldery,
  And the public, when they'd poke it up, looks chilly and
        cold-shouldery.

  Drat 'em, what _do_ they want to do? Their "demmycratic polity"
  Means nothink more nor less than sheer upsetting of the Quality!
  They'd treat the Hupper Ten like srimps, pull off their 'eds and
        swoller 'em;
  And when they raves agin our perks, they only longs to collar 'em.
  Down with all priwilege indeed? Wy, priwilege is the honly thing
  As keeps hus from the wildernedge. I'm but a poor, old, lonely thing,
  But if they mends or ends the Lords--wich 'evvin forbid they ever
        do!--
  They'll take _my_ livelyhood away! No, drat it, that will never do!
  A world without no priwilege, no pickings, and no perks in it,
  Wy--'twould be like Big Ben up there if it 'ad got no works in it.

  These demmycratic levellers is the butchers of Society,
  They'd take its tops and innards off and hout. _I_ loves wariety.
  Them Commons is a common lot, as like all round as winkleses,
  But Marquiges--lord bless 'em!--they is like bright stars as
        twinkleses
  And makes the sky _respectable_; and its a old, old story
  As stars--and likeways garters--_must_ 'ave differences in glory.
  Wy, even street lamps wary, and I says the harrystocracy
  Is like to 'eavenly 'lectric lights outshining the democracy
  As the Clock-tower's 'fulgence do the flare at some fried-fish
        shop, Mum.
  Oh, there's a somethink soothing in a Dook, or Earl, or Bishop, Mum,
  As makes yer mere M.P.'s sing small, as may be taller-chandlerses.
  Its henvy, Mum, that's wot it is, they've got the yaller janderses
  Along o' bilious jealousy; though wy young ROGEBERRY ever did
  Allow hisself to herd with them--well, drat it, there, I _never_
        did!--
  As long as I can twirl a mop or sluice a floor or ceiling for
  The blessed Peers, I'll 'old with 'em, as I've a feller feeling for.
  Birds of a feather flock--well, well! I 'ope I knows my place, I do;
  Likeways that I shall _keep_ it. Wich I think it a 'ard case, I do,
  This downing on Old Women!

              'Owsomever, Mister MORLEY is
  A long ways from his hobject yet. The House o' Lords, Mum, surely is
  Most different from Jericho, it will not fall with shouting, Mum,
  Nor yet no platform trumpets will not down it, there's no doubting,
        Mum.
  Their tongues and loud Rad ram's-horns do their level best to win it,
        Mum.
  But--they ain't got rid of Hus--not yet,--nor _won't_ direckly-minute,
        Mum!

                               * * * * *

FROM THE BIRMINGHAM FESTIVAL.--An eminent musician sends us this
note:--Nothing Brummagem about the Birmingham Festival. Dr. PARRY'S
oratorio, _King Saul_, a big success. Of course this subject has been
Handel'd before; but the composer of _King Saul_, _Junior_, (so to be
termed for sake of distinction, and distinction it has certainly
attained,) need fear no com-parry-songs. Perhaps another title might be,
"_Le Roi Saul à la mode de Parry_." (_Private, to Ed._--Shall be much
pleased if you'll admit this as a Parry-graph.)

                               * * * * *

HOPE DISPELLED.--The music-hall proprietors must have been in high
spirits at the commencement of the sittings of the Licensing Committee
when they heard that "Mr. ROBERTS" was to be the chairman. Of course, to
them there is but one "ROBERTS," which his _prénom_ is "ARTHUR"--and
unfortunately there appeared as chairman "not _this_ ARTHUR, but
another."

                               * * * * *

In the course of conversation, the other evening, Mrs. R. remembered
that "The Margarine" is a German title. "Isn't there," she asked, "a
Margarine of Hesse?"

                               * * * * *

ANTI-FATNESS.--Excellent receipt for getting thin. Back horses, and you
will lose many pounds in no time. (_Advice gratis by one who has tried
it._)

                               * * * * *

                         A PIER OF THE EMPIRE.

                    (_By a Commoner of the Nation._)

As licensing day was approaching, I thought it my duty to visit the
Empire Theatre of Varieties in Leicester Square, so that if needs be I
could appear as a witness either for the prosecution or the defence. I
am happy to say that my expedition has put me in a position to join the
garrison. From first to last--from item No. 1 to item No. 10--the
entertainments at the Empire are excellent. And in the general praise I
am able to include "Living Pictures," which are all that even an
archbishop could wish that they should be. But the chief attraction of
the evening is a new _ballet divertissement_ in one tableau, called _On
Brighton Pier_, which has evidently been put up to teach the members of
the L. C. C. how much better things are done in the Sussex watering
place than in the great metropolis. According to "the Argument," when
the scene opens, people are promenading in the sun, and "some gentlemen
bribe the bath chairmen to give up their places in the evening so that
they may flirt with the girls accompanying the invalids." But possibly
as an afterthought this was thought a little too strong for the Censor
of Spring Gardens. I found the "gentlemen" (most of them in high white
hats), and then I discovered the bath chairmen, but there was nothing to
lead me to believe that the connecting links between the two were
bribery and corruption. In addition to this _plat à la Don Giovanni_
there were an _entrée_ in the shape of a gathering of schoolboys and
schoolgirls, a _soufflé_ in some military plus naval drill, and a _pièce
de résistance_ in a change of scene from the deck of the Pier to the
depths of the sea beneath it. And here let me say that I use
_résistance_ in a purely culinary sense, as nothing could have worked
more smoothly than the transformation.

                             [Illustration]

Madame KATTI LANNER, by whom the ballet has been invented, is a past
mistress in the art of concocting terpsichorean trifles, and never
admits any difficulty in combining the poetry of fancy with the
actuality of fact. In her latest production she finds that after a while
a change of scene is necessary. The public, after admiring the
refreshment stalls and the distant view of the Grand Hotel, want
something more. Certainly, why not? The daughter of an American
millionaire, who has met a rather effeminate gentleman for the first
time, overcome by the heat, falls asleep. Then, to quote from "the
Argument," in her dream she sees sirens and sea-nymphs, led by the
_Queen Coralie_ (Signorina BICE PORRO), unsuccessfully attempt to lure
away her lover, but--awaking from her sleep--the vision disappears, and
she finds him at her feet. All this was very pretty, and the scruples of
the L. C. C. were considered by the lack of success of _Queen Coralie_
to shake the swain's fidelity to his betrothed. Although evidently
interested in the dances of the sirens and sea-nymphs--in spite of their
treating him with little or no attention--he was _ultra_ discreet in
making the acquaintance of her submarine majesty. When the Queen stood
on one toe he merely accepted her invitation to hold her hand, and thus
enable her to revolve on the tip of her right toe--but went no further.
And really and truly, as a gentleman, it was impossible for him to do
less. At any rate his conduct was so unexceptional in _Grace Dollar's_
dream, that his _fiancée_, who, according to "the Argument," had had "a
slight quarrel with him," immediately sought reconciliation. Besides the
submarine interlude, _On Brighton Pier_ has a serious underplot. _Senora
Dolares_ (Signorina CAVALLAZZI), who has been searching all over the
world for her daughter, who had been stolen from her ten years ago, is
personally conducted to the pleasant promenade off the beach. Husband
and wife seemingly spend the entire day on the Pier. They are here in
the morning, in the sunshine, and here when the variegated lamps are
lighted at night. The Senora is pleased at nothing. She regards the
vagaries of a negro comedian with indifference, and does not even smile
at the gambols of a clown dog. Suddenly a girl called _Dora_ appears.
And now once more to quote the Argument. "_Dora_ plays upon her
mandoline some melody the _Senora Dolares_ recognises. She quickly asks
the girl where she first heard it; and _Dora_ says that a lady used to
sing it to her in her early days and that the same lady gave her a
cross, which she produces. The Senora, by means of the cross, recognises
in _Dora_ her long-lost child. Amid great excitement she leads her
tenderly away [in the direction of the Hotel Metropole], and, after some
further dances, the curtain falls." Nothing can be prettier, and more
truly moral, than _On Brighton Pier_. I can conscientiously recommend it
to every member of the L. C. C.; some will smile at the eccentric dance
of _Major Spooner_ (Mr. WILL BISHOP); others will grin at the more
boisterous humour of _Christopher Dollar_ (Mr. JOHN RIDLEY); and all
must weep at the depressed velvet coat of _Don Diego_ (Mr. GEORGE
ASHTON), the husband of _Senora Dolares_, in search of a (comparatively)
long-lost daughter. Judging from the reception the ballet received the
other evening, I fancy that _On Brighton Pier_ will remain on London
boards for any length of time.

[Illustration: "I can conscientiously
recommend it."]

                               * * * * *

                         GOSSIP WITHOUT WORDS.

    ["AUTOLYCUS," in the _Pall Mall Gazette_ of October 11, inveighs
    against the necessity of conversation between friends:--"If I
    find a girl nice to look at, and she has taken great pains to
    make herself nice to look at, why cannot we pass the evening, I
    looking at her, and she being looked at? But no, we must talk."]

Undoubtedly, if conversation were abolished, "short stories" in the
future would be still further abbreviated. Here is a beautiful specimen
of blank--or Anthony Hope-less--dialogue:--

                          THE NELLY NOVELETTES.

"!" exclaimed Miss NELLY EATON, suddenly, with her quivering nostril.

"?" I asked with my right eyebrow, rousing myself from a fit of
abstraction.

She pointed at a young man who had just strolled past our seats in the
Row without noticing her. He was dressed in the height of fashion, and
was accompanied by a lady in very smart attire.

"..." explained NELLY, with her mouth tightly shut.

                 [Illustration: "Taught him to smoke."]

I looked at her, and gathered by a swift process of intuition that she
had _made_ that boy, and taught him to drink and smoke--of course, in
moderation; had got his hair cut, and had rescued him from an
adventuress. From her he had learnt not to go to Monday Pops, nor to
carry things about in brown paper--in fact, he owed everything to
her.... And now----!

"§" I visibly commented, not knowing for the moment how else to express
myself. In fact I was getting just a trifle out of my depth. However, I
gazed again at her.... Yes, she had deeply eloquent blue eyes, fringed
with dark eyelashes, that voiced forth every emotion! Stay, I am afraid
that in my admiration my speechless remarks had wandered from the topic
of our mute discussion.

"[+]" interjected her pitying but impatient glance, telling me that my
devotion was useless.

I looked very miserable. It is generally understood that I am the most
miserable of men since Miss EATON'S engagement to an American
millionaire.

[Here I am sorry to say that our dialogue becomes somewhat elliptical,
owing to the difficulty of finding enough unappropriated printers'
symbols to represent our different shades of silence. However, with
luck, I may be able to scrape together a few more, and come to some sort
of conclusion.]

Let me see--where were we?... Oh, on the subject of the boy and his
companion, who, it seems, were engaged.

"* * *" resumed NELLY, in a look which spoke three volumes. I divined at
once that she had thrown him over, that there had been an awful scene,
and his mother had written a horrid letter, that he had come back and
abjectly apologised, that he said she had destroyed his faith in women
(the usual thing), that he went on sending letters for a whole year: in
fact, that it made her quite uncomfortable.... Really, NELLY can give
points to LORD BURLEIGH'S nod!

"?" inquired my right eye, meaning, had she not been in love with him a
little bit?

Miss NELLY prodded the path with her parasol.

"¿" I asked again, referring to a different person, and, I am afraid,
squinting.

Miss NELLY looked for the fraction of an instant in my direction.

"¿¿" I repeated.

                             [Illustration]

Miss NELLY looked straight in front of her. There was her _fiancé_, the
American millionaire!

"----! ----!" That is, I smilingly withdrew.

                               * * * * *

SATISFACTORY REPORTS AS TO THE AMEER.--It was not an illness,
it was "A mere indisposition."

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: PREHISTORIC PEEPS.

THE ANNUAL FOOTBALL MATCH BETWEEN THE OLD RED SANDSTONE ROVERS AND THE
PLIOCENE WANDERERS WAS IMMENSELY AND DESERVEDLY POPULAR!!]

                               * * * * *

"HYMEN HYMENÆE!" (_À propos of a Public Favourite_).--_Mr. Punch_ wishes
health and happiness to the bride of Sir WILLIAM GREGORY, known to us
all, during a long and honourable theatrical career in the very first
line of Dramatic Art, as Mrs. STIRLING the incomparable, always of
sterling worth in any piece wherein she took a part. She was always at
her best. Latterly she has been chiefly associated with the _Nurse_ in
_Romeo and Juliet_, and no better representative of the character could
ever have been seen on any stage. Her recent marriage has in it somewhat
of a Shaksperian association, for were not the _Nurse_ and _Gregory_
both together in the same establishment, yclept the noble House of
Capulet? And what more natural that these two should come together, and
"the _Nurse_ to _Juliet_" should become the "wife to _Gregory_"?

                               * * * * *

"STOPPING" THE WAY IN THE COLONIES.--Where British Colonists are first
in the field, be the field where it may, it is unwise to allow any
non-Britishers to get as far as a semi-colony, but at once they should
be made to come to a full-stop. As it is, Great Britain looks on in a
state of _com(m)a_, only to wake up with a note of exclamation, but not
of admiration, when it is too late to put a note of interrogation.

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: COMPREHENSIVE.

"WHAT'S _VOLAPUK_, DOCTOR SCHMITZ?"

"IT IS ZE UNIFERSAL LANGVAGE!"

"AND WHO SPEAKS IT?"

"NOPOTTY!"]

                               * * * * *

"CITY IMPROVEMENTS."--The City isn't likely to lose any chance of a dig
at the L. C. C. Last week, at a meeting of City Commissioners of Sewers
at Guildhall, Alderman GREEN,--not so verdant by any means as the name
would seem to imply,--protested against the great delay on the part of
the L. C. C. in regard to the improvements in Upper Thames Street. So
the London County Council is sitting considering "_dum defluit
ANNUS_"--representing the "_amnis ævi_"--and while Upper Thames Street
is, _pace_ the ever Green Alderman, in a state of stagnation as far as
"improvements" are concerned.

                               * * * * *

A DROUTH-AND-MOUTH-DISEASE.--A curious disease, originating, it is said,
in the East, has lately baffled medical men. It is called "beriberi."
Introduce another "e" into the first and third syllable, and the name
might serve for that thirsty kind of feverish state with which no
Anti-closing-of-the-public-at-any-time-Society is able to cope.

                               * * * * *

"PREMATUER?"--Per the _Leadenhall Press_, Mr. TUER is bringing out a
real old Horn-book, that is, a _facsimile_ of the ancient Horn-book. For
years have we longed to see the genuine article. It will be in
Hornamental cover, of course. "_Succès au livre de la corne!_"

                               * * * * *

                            "THE AUTOCRAT."

                         OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

                    BORN 1809. DIED OCTOBER 7, 1894.

  "The Last Leaf!" Can it be true,
  We have turned it, and on _you_
       Friend of all?
  That the years at last have power?
  That life's foliage and its flower
       Fade and fall?

  Was there one who ever took
  From its shelf, by chance, a book
       Penned by you,
  But was fast your friend, for life,
  With _one_ refuge from its strife
       Safe and true?

  Even gentle ELIA'S self
  Might be proud to share that shelf,
       Leaf to leaf,
  With a soul of kindred sort,
  Who could bind strong sense and sport
       In one sheaf.

  From that Boston breakfast table
  Wit and wisdom, fun and fable,
       Radiated
  Through all English-speaking places.
  When were Science and the Graces
       So well mated?

  Of sweet singers the most sane,
  Of keen wits the most humane,
       Wide yet clear,
  Like the blue, above us bent;
  Giving sense and sentiment
       Each its sphere;

  With a manly breadth of soul,
  And a fancy quaint and droll;
       Ripe and mellow:
  With a virile power of "hit,"
  Finished scholar, poet, wit,
       _And_ good fellow!

  Sturdy patriot, and yet;
  True world's citizen! Regret
       Dims our eyes
  As we turn each well-thumbed leaf;
  Yet a glory 'midst our grief
       Will arise.

  Years your spirit could not tame,
  And they will not dim your fame;
       England joys
  In your songs all strength and ease,
  And the "dreams" you "wrote to please
       Grey-haired boys."

  And of such were you not one?
  Age chilled not your fire or fun.
       Heart alive
  Makes a boy of a grey bard,
  Though his years be--"by the card"--
       Eighty-five!

                               * * * * *

                        VENETIAN FLOWER SELLERS

  Young, dark-eyed beauties, graceful, gay,
    So I expected you to be,
  Adorning in a charming way
    This silent City of the Sea.
  But you are very far from that;
  You're forty--sometimes more--and fat.

  Oh, girls of Venice! WOODS, R.A.,
    Has frequently depicted you,
  Idealising, I should say--
    A thing that painters often do;
  Still, though your charms have left me cold,
  At least you are not fat and old!

  Why should you, flower-sellers, then,
    Be so advanced in age and size?
  You cannot charm the foreign men,
    Who gaze at you in blank surprise.
  You hover round me--like a gnat,
  Each of you, but old and fat.

  Extremely troublesome you are,
    No gnats were ever half so bad,
  You dart upon me from afar,
    And do your best to drive me mad.
  Oh bother you, so overbold,
  Preposterously fat and old!

  You buttonhole me as I drink
    My _caffe nero_ on the square,
  Stick flowers in my coat, and think
    I can't refuse them. I don't care.
  I'd buy them, just to have a chat,
  If you were not so old and fat.

  Oh go away! I hate the sight
    Of flowers since that afternoon
  When first we met. I think of flight,
    Or drowning in the still lagoon.
  I am, unlike your flowers, sold,
  You are so very fat and old.

                               * * * * *

                 SUGGESTED MOTTO FOR THE AËRATED BREAD
                                COMPANY.

                      .... "His sleep
      Was aëry light, from pure digestion bred."
                                    _Paradise Lost, B. V., line 4._

                               * * * * *

                           FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

There is no doubt that one's first impressions are always the brightest
and the best; therefore I resolve to record the first impressions of a
first visit to the Italian lakes.

_British Bellagio._--"Hôtel Victoria, Prince de Galles et des Iles
Britanniques," or some such name, is usually, as _Baedeker_ says,
"frequented by the English." They are here certainly, and one hears
one's native language everywhere. There are the honeymoon couples,
silent and reserved, who glare fiercely at anyone who might be supposed
to imagine for a moment that they are newly married; there are people
who converse in low monotonous voices about the weather, which changes
every hour; there is an old lady, who gives one startling information,
telling one, for instance, that PAUL VERONESE was born at Verona; and
there are two or three British menservants, gazing with superb disdain
at the poor foreigners. The hotel is very quiet. The evening of a
week-day is like Sunday evening, and Sunday evening is----!!! If only
the weather were not also English, or even worse. On the last day of
September the only warm place is by the fire in the _fumoir_. So let us
hurry off from this wintry climate to somewhere, to anywhere. By the
first boat we go.

                             [Illustration]

Still English everywhere. At Bellagio a great crowd, and heaps of
luggage. At Cadenabbia a greater crowd, and more heaps of luggage. Here
they come, struggling along the gangway in the wind. There is a
sad-faced Englishman, his hands full of packages, his pockets stuffed
with others, carrying under his arm a little old picture wrapped loosely
in pink tissue paper, which the wind blows here and there. He is a
forgetful man, for he wanders to and fro collecting his possessions.
With him is another forgetful Englishman in very shabby clothes, who
also carries packages in paper, and who drags after him an immensely fat
bull-dog at the end of a cord five yards long, which winds round posts
and human legs and other obstacles. At last they are all on board--the
forgetful Englishmen have darted back for the last time to fetch in an
ice-axe and an old umbrella--and on we go over the grey water, past the
grey hills, under the grey sky, towards Como. At Cernobbio the shabby
Englishman lands, dragging his bull-dog at the end of the cord, and
carrying in his arms two rolls of rugs, a bag, and other trifles. His
sad-faced companion, still holding his tiny Old Master in the
ever-diminishing pink paper, wanders in and out seeking forgotten
treasures, an ice-axe, a bag, another paper parcel. Finally all are
landed; the gangway is withdrawn, the steamer begins to move. Suddenly
there is a shout. The shabby Englishman has forgotten something. The
sympathetic passengers look round. There is a solitary umbrella on a
seat. No doubt that is his. A friendly stranger cries, "Is this yours?"
and tosses it to him on the quay. Then there is another shout. "_Ach
Himmel_, dat is mine!" The frantic German waves his arms, the umbrella
is tossed back, he catches it and is happy. But meanwhile another
English man, the most egregious ass that ever lived, has discovered yet
another solitary umbrella, which he casts wildly into space. For one
moment the captain, the passengers, the people on the quay, gaze
breathless as it whirls through the air. It falls just short of the
landing-stage, and sinks into the grey waters of that chilly lake, never
more to be recovered, in any sense of the word. In those immeasurable
depths its neat silk covering will decay, its slender frame will fall to
pieces. It has gone for ever. Beneath this grey Italian sky some Italian
gamp must keep off these Italian showers. Then the captain, the
passengers, and the people smile and laugh. I, who write this, am the
only one on whose face there is not a grin, for that umbrella was mine.

                                              A FIRST IMPRESSIONIST.

                               * * * * *

                          TO A PRETTY UNKNOWN.

                       (_By a Constant Admirer._)

                             [Illustration]

  Your pretty face I saw two years ago,
    You looked divine--if I'm not wrong, in lace.
  I noticed you, and thus I got to know
    Your pretty face.

  To-day I travelled to a distant place.
    We stopped at Bath. I read my _Punch_, when lo!
  You came into my carriage and Your Grace
    Rode with me for a dozen miles or so.
  Tell me, should we in this Fate's finger trace?
  I care not since you had the heart to show
              Your pretty face.

                               * * * * *

                           TEDDIE THE TILER.

                             [Illustration]

'Tis November makes the (Lord) Mayor to go. As the ninth approaches, the
year's tenant of the Mansion House packs up and says farewell to all his
greatness. On the principle that attributes happiness to a country that
has no annals, the outgoing LORD MAYOR is to be congratulated on his
year of office. It is probable that out of aldermanic circles not one
man of a hundred in the street could straight off say what is his
Lordship's name. _Mr. Punch_, who knows most things, only ventures to
believe that the good alderman is known in the family circle as Sir
EDWARD TYLER. And a very good name, too. In the occult ceremonies
pertaining to freemasonry it is understood there is an official known as
the Tiler, whose duty is to guard the door, strictly excluding all but
those whose right of entrance is peremptory. Our Sir EDWARD has indeed
been the Tiler of the traditionally hospitable Mansion House.

                               * * * * *

                             BROKEN CHINA.

                             [Illustration]

It is curious to observe the attitude of Western Powers towards the
life-and-death struggle going on in the far East. We of course regret
the loss of life, but are mainly interested in observing the effect in
actual work of ships and guns identical with our own. It is a sort of
gigantic test got up for our benefit at somebody else's expense. That an
ancient empire seems tottering to a fall moves no emotion. "Yes," said
the Member for SARK, to whom these recondite remarks were addressed;
"POPE wasn't far out of it when he very nearly said 'Europe is mistress
of herself though China fall.'"

                               * * * * *

                 "MOVING ABOUT IN WORLDS NOT REALISED."

            (_By a prejudiced but puzzled Victim of Teacaddies
and Ginger-jars._)

  I _suppose_ there's a war in the East,
    (I am deluged with pictures about it,)
  But I can't _realise_ it--no, not in the least,
    And, in spite of the papers, I doubt it.
  A Chinaman seems such a nebulous chap,
  And I can't fancy shedding the gore of a Jap.

  Those parchmenty fellows have fleets?
    Big Iron-clads, each worth a million?
  I cannot conceive it, my reason it beats.
    The lord of the pencil vermilion
  Fits in with a teacaddy, _not_ a torpedo.
  Just picture a Ram in that queer bay of Yedo!

  It seems the right place for a junk,
    (With a fine flight of storks in the offing),
  But think of a battle-ship there being sunk
    By a Krupp! 'Tis suggestive of scoffing.
  I try to believe, but 'tis merely bravado.
  It all seems as funny as GILBERT'S _Mikado_.

  And then those preposterous names,
    Like a lot of cracked bells all a-tinkling!
  I try to imagine their militant games,
    But at present I can't get an inkling
  Of what it _can_ mean when a fellow named HONG
  And one TING (Lord High Admiral!) go it ding-dong!

  A NELSON whose _nomen_ is WHANG
    To me, I admit's, inconceivable.
  And war between WO-HUNG and CHING-A-RING CHANG,
    Sounds funny, but quite unbelievable.
  And can you conceive Maxim bullets a-sing
  Round a saffron-hued hero called PONG, or PING-WING?

  A ship called _Kow-Shing_, I am sure,
    Can be only a warship _pour rire_.
  And Count YAMAGATA--he _must_ be a cure!
    No, no, friends, I very much fear
  That in spite of the pictures, and portraits, and maps,
  I _can't_ make live heroes of Johnnies and Japs!




Transcriber's note:

Small capitals were replaced with ALL CAPITALS.

Throughout the document, the oe ligature was replaced with "oe".

Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of
the speakers. Those words were retained as-is.

The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up
paragraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate.

Errors in punctuation and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected
unless otherwise noted.

On page 181, a period was added after "thou dost bless".

On page 182, "he meet" was replaced with "he meets".

On page 185, a period was added after "At Homes".