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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOL. 108

FEBRUARY 2, 1895

Edited by Sir Francis Burnand




TALL TALES OF SPORT AND ADVENTURE.

(_By Mr. Punch's own Short Story-teller._)

I.--THE PINK HIPPOPOTAMUS. (CONTINUED.)

On the opposite side of the room, with his brave old back against the
wall, stood my dear father, his arms tightly bound to his sides, and a
cummerbund tied firmly over that mouth which had never, save in
moments of thoughtless, but pardonable anger, spoken any but words of
kindness to his son. In front of him was couched a huge man-eating
tiger--I recognised his hominivorous propensities at once by the
peculiar striping of his left shoulder, an infallible sign to a
sportsman's eye--licking his chops in joyous anticipation of the
unresisting feast which Providence had thus thrown in his way. I could
see the great red tongue darting out now on one side of his mouth, now
on the other, while his immense tail lashed the floor in dazzling
curves. This spectacle would have been sufficient to shake the nerves
of an ordinarily courageous man--but this was not all. On one side of
the gigantic cat lay coiled an immense python, of the deadliest kind,
and on the other one of the tallest and most powerful elephants I have
ever seen was squatting on its haunches, blinking at my poor father
with its wicked little eyes. I knew at once what had happened. My
father's only weakness was a fondness amounting to mania for conjuring
tricks of all kinds. The latest mail had brought us some English
papers containing descriptions of the Cabinet Trick of the DAVENPORT
Brothers, who were at that time (this may help to fix the date, a
point on which I have never cared to trouble myself) astounding all
London by their dexterity in untying themselves from ropes lashed
securely round them. As soon as he had read the accounts my father
determined that he would practise the trick, and for a week past he
had spent hours in our little room with coils of rope wound round
every part of his body in the effort, which had hitherto proved vain,
to release himself. Every day the heroic old fellow, still panting
from his intolerable exertions, had murmured "I am all but undone,"
but never--if the expression may be pardoned--had he been so near his
utter undoing as he was at this awful moment. Of course I knew what
had happened. The dastardly Chamberlain, whose discomfiture I have
already narrated, must have got wind of my father's daily practice,
and, taking advantage of his state of bondage, must have introduced
into our room its present horrible occupants. The room was not a large
one, and the stairs leading to it were steep, and I have never yet
been able to explain to myself satisfactorily by what masterpiece of
diabolical ingenuity the scoundrel was able to carry out his
stratagem.

[Illustration]

However, this was no moment for discovering explanations. The
situation required instant action. Fortunately, my father's eyes were
unbandaged, and for the space of half-an-hour, as it afterwards turned
out, he had been able to control his zoological invaders by the mere
magnetism of his unwavering glance. One wink, however, was bound to
prove fatal, and I saw from the beads of perspiration standing upon
the old man's rugged forehead that he must be very near the limit of
his power of keeping both eyes open. If a drop of perspiration should
happen to roll into one of his eyes there could be, I knew, but one
end to the business.

As good luck would have it, the animals had not noticed my entrance. I
immediately decided what to do. Addressing my father silently in the
deaf and dumb language, of which I am a master, I adjured him to stand
firm for another moment or two. I could see from the expression of
trustful thankfulness, which stealing over his face, robbed it of
every vestige of anxiety, that he had understood my appeal. Then
creeping cautiously to a cupboard, I opened it without the slightest
noise and found, as I expected, a small coil of rope and a dish of
Sallûns, a very tasty kind of native cake. Taking two of these, I tied
one to each end of the rope, and threw it deftly so that one cake
dropped under the elephant's trunk, while the other, by a stroke of
good fortune, fell right into the wide open jaws of the python. The
slack, as I intended, alighted gently in a running noose round the
tiger's throat. What I anticipated happened. The snake, without
troubling itself to discover whence the gift had come, swallowed the
Sallûn with which fate had so unexpectedly provided it. In doing so it
pulled the dainty at the other end slightly away from the mammoth,
who, seeing it moving from him, lost no time in seizing it with his
trunk and placing it, as is the wont of these animals, in his mouth.
The rope was immediately pulled taut, and began to choke the tiger.
His roars were awful but unavailing. Neither elephant nor python would
release his hold, and in just seventy-four seconds--I took the time by
my stop-watch--the beautiful striped brute was a corpse. This,
however, was not all. So hard did the two living beasts struggle in
their fearful tug of war that the tiger's head gradually became
detached from his body and rolled away to my immoveable father's feet.
What would be the result of the contest? The agony of watching was
frightful. In my suspense I tried to breathe a prayer, but at the time
all I could remember was the fifth proposition of the first book of
Euclid, which I repeated twice over without a single mistake.
Meanwhile, the two combatants, as the Sallûns went further and further
down their throats and into their stomachs, approached closer and
closer to one another. At last only a yard, then a foot, then six
inches, then an inch separated them, until at last--Great heaven! my
hair, even as I write, stands on end with unutterable horror--I saw
the python open its enormous jaws to their fullest extent and swallow,
yes, literally swallow the trunk, the tusks, and the vast head of the
elephant. Slowly the immense pachyderm disappeared. I heard his great
bones crack and shiver as inch after inch of him was remorselessly
engulfed until, after three minutes and fourteen seconds, all that
visibly remained of him was a little tail, which for a space waggled
feebly out of the snake's mouth. Then this, too, was still. Another
gulp and it was gone, and all was over.

To dispatch the python in its distended condition was the work of a
moment. I at once released the old man who had been the delighted
spectator of my successful cunning. His joy, as may be imagined, was
great, but his pride in his son was even greater than his joy. I
exacted from him a promise (which, I regret to say, he broke only a
few days afterwards) never again to practise the Cabinet Trick. Then,
having rung the bell and ordered my servant to carry away the remains
of the three beasts, I proceeded to make my preparations for starting
without delay in quest of the Pink Hippopotamus.

(_To be continued._)

       *       *       *       *       *

A REVISED CODE.

    ["The Ladies' Football Club have been defeated--we make haste to
    add by the weather. They are said to have shown of late a
    disinclination, with which it is easy to sympathise, to practice
    in the cold, to say nothing of the mud.... A wit has suggested
    that football matches should be settled "by
    arbitration."--_Daily Graphic._]

RULES OF THE L. F. C.

[Illustration]

1. Only the Association game shall be permitted, with the following
modifications.

2. Matches shall under no circumstances be played between the months
of September and May.

3. The sides shall consist of any number of young ladies (not "new"),
good-looking, and well-dressed, to be captained by a good hostess.

4. These are not to run, walk, or scuffle about with, after, or away
from, any ball whatever, nor to tumble about under any pretence, nor
to perform any evolution which may be calculated to disarrange their
toilet.

5. The play shall be conducted by the umpires, who are to be of the
male sex.

6. There shall be eleven umpires on each side.

7. In all cases where possible, the match shall be settled without
resorting to brute force, or needless waste of time and breath, by
appealing immediately before "kick-off" to the arbitration of the
referee.

8. The referee shall be the most intelligent and elderly foreign count
whose services are obtainable, or, failing that, the least athletic
cabinet minister or archbishop in the neighbourhood.

9. The goals shall consist of two large marquees, in which the
respective captains, assisted by the other lady-members, shall preside
over afternoon tea and ices.

10. In the event of the ball travelling anywhere near the goals, or in
any way endangering the tea-things, the referee shall at once stop all
further play.

11. It shall be permissible, and, indeed, recommended, that any, or
all, the umpires shall leave the football alone at any stage of the
game, and attend to the lady-players, and no umpire shall be ruled
"off-side" for so doing.

12. No cry of "hands" or other invidious comment shall be raised when
any umpire is caught asking any lady-player for her hand, or else what
would be the blessed good of the club's existence?

13. As many "corners" as possible shall be allowed. These are to be in
shady parts of the field or in the marquees, and are to be used solely
for flirtation.

14. A "free kick" shall be given to any umpire who fools about after
the ball, when he ought to be in the marquee.

15. If there be insufficient space, the game may be omitted entirely,
and tea given in the nearest and best-laid-out private gardens, where
there are shrubberies and summer-houses; or the match may be
converted, in the event of doubtful weather, into a dance.

16. No match shall be declared "off" after the banns have been read.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ONE TOO MANY ALL ROUND

_Sportsman_ (_showing his horses to friend who has ridden over to see
him_). "NOW THAT'S THE CLEVEREST LITTLE BEGGAR I EVER HAD IN MY
LIFE--OBLIGED TO SELL HER THOUGH--GOT TOO MANY." (_Insinuatingly._)
"BY THE WAY, SHE WOULD CARRY YOU!"

_Friend._ "BY JOVE! WHY THAT'S THE MARE CRASHER SOLD TO BOLTER--HAD
TOO MANY, I REMEMBER--ODD, AIN'T IT? BOLTER MUST HA' HAD TOO MANY AND
SOLD HER TO YOU!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE INTERESTING INVALID.

_An Alice-in-Wonderlandish Sea-Dream._

    ["An inquiry into the circumstances under which the cultivation
    and storage of oysters and other shell-fish around our coast are
    carried out, which it is stated Mr. BRYCE is about to institute,
    will serve a useful purpose, especially in the case of 'other
    shell-fish,'"--_Daily Chronicle._]

[Illustration: THE INTERESTING INVALID.

_Dr. Lobster_ (_to Nurse Crab_). "CAN'T MAKE OUT WHAT'S THE MATTER
WITH HIM! EXPECT HE'S SHAMMING!"]

  'Twas the voice of the Lobster, I heard him declare,
  "Doctors frighten our Dandos, and that isn't fair.
  'Inquiry on Shell-fish'? Oh! blow Mr. BRYCE!
  You will soon be all right if you take _my_ advice!"

"Well, I hope so, I'm sure," said the Walrus to the Carpenter.

"Or else what is to become of our pleasant little picnics on the
sea-shore?" said the Carpenter to the Walrus.

  The Walrus and the Carpenter
    Were hovering round the bed;
  They wept like anything to see
    Each Oyster hang his head;
  "If they go on like this," they cried,
    "They'll very soon be dead!"

"Drat 'em!" grumbled Nurse Crab. "They've been taking a _drain_ too
much, I feel _sewer_."

"You're another, _Mrs. Gamp_," murmured a Native, lifting his head
limply from his brown-sand bolster, and dropping it back again with a
disconsolate dab.

"If you make bad puns to 'em in their present low state I won't answer
for the consequences," said Dr. Lobster, pulling Nurse Crab's shelly
apron in professional remonstrance.

Nurse Crab squared her claws like Amazonian elbows, and rolled her
protuberant eyes scornfully.

"Feel their pulses," suggested the Carpenter.

"They haven't got any," snapped Dr. Lobster. "Besides my claws are not
suited for pulse-feeling."

"Make 'em put their tongues out," hinted the Walrus.

"Tongues?" sneered Dr. Lobster, derisively. "Don't you know that, like
CHARLES READE'S nigger, oysters are 'darned anomalies,'--

'Because they have beards without any chin, And get out of bed to be
tucked in.'"

"Old riddles are more painful than bad puns," protested the bed-ridden
bivalve. "Tucked in, indeed. Well, _I_ shall never get out of bed
again, that's one thing," he continued, with a spitefully triumphant
look at the Walrus and the Carpenter.

"Oh, _don't_ say that!" said the Carpenter, tearfully.

  The Artful Oyster looked at him,
    But no word more he said;
  The Artful Oyster winked his eye,
    And shook his fevered head;
  As who should say "'Tis not for _you_,
    I'll leave the oyster-bed."

"_Silence_ in the sick-room, or I'll turn you all out of it," snapped
Dr. Lobster, making his claws click like infuriated castanets in the
Walrus's ears.

  As a duck in a thunderstorm, quite thunder-struck,
  Each sixpenny bivalve looks "down on his luck."
  Fancy six bob a dozen! You _ought_ to be nice,
  You dear little darlings, _most_ dear--at the price!
  What _have_ you been doing to make yourself sick
  Like a lot of slum-dwellers? Come, answer me quick!

"'Spect they're shamming," said Nurse Crab, crabbily.

"I'd like to poison the lot of you!" muttered the irascible invalid.

"Just what you've been trying to do, you murderous mossels!" retorted
Nurse Crab.

"_Mussels?_ No! Come now! we're not as bad as _they_ are," protested
the better-class bivalve, indignantly. "_Mussels_, indeed! Mussels are
low things, cheap and nasty shams, sold by costers at a penny a
plateful, and eaten by the ravenous rabble with black pepper _and
their fingers_! Eugh!" The superior mollusk's soul-shaking,
upper-class, high-toned shudder shook it into a sharp attack of
syncope, from which it was with difficulty that Dr. Lobster's
ministrations rallied it.

"Call yourself a _nurse_?" said the Doctor to Mrs. Crab. "You ought to
be ashamed of yourself. How would _you_ like to be compared to a whelk
or a winkle? You and your mussels! Consider the gentleman's feelings!"

"I _didn't_ say _mussels_--I said _mossels_," muttered Nurse Crab,
sullenly.

  "Well, well," quoth the Lobster. "You take my advice,
  And I fancy we'll do without HUXLEY or BRYCE.
  Mere mussels or mackerel, lower-class grub,
  That flounder in baskets, or flop in a tub,
  At six for a shilling, or tuppence a pound,
  May go sick if they like, but we _must_ bring _you_ round!"

    [_And_ Mr. PUNCH _hopes they will_.

       *       *       *       *       *

LITTLE MOPSËMAN.

(_The very newest Dramatic Allegory from Norway._)

PERSONS.

    ALFRED FRÜYSECK (_Man of Letters_).
    Mrs. SPRETA FRÜYSECK (_his wife_).
    Little MOPSËMAN (_their Püdeldachs, six years and nine months old_).
    MOPSA BROVIK (_a little less than kin to_ ALFRED).
    Sanitary Engineer BLOCHDRÄHN.
    The VARMINT-BL[=O]K.

    TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.--The word "_bl[=o]k_," like the analogous
    Norwegian "_gëyser_," implies merely an individual--not
    necessarily a shady one. Cf. ELEN and CHEVALIER, _passim_.

THE FIRST ACT.

    _A richly-upholstered garden-room, full of art-pots and other
    furniture._ Mrs. SPRETA FRÜYSECK _stands beside the table,
    unpacking the traditional bag_. _Shortly after_, Miss MOPSA
    BROVIK _enters by the door; she carries a pink parasol and a
    rather portly portfolio with a patent lock_.

_Mopsa_ (_as she enters_). Good morning, my dear SPRETA! (_Sees the
bag._) Why, you are unpacking a travelling-bag on the drawing-room
table! Then ALFRED has actually come home?

    [_Takes off her things._]

_Spreta_ (_turns and nods with a teasing smile_). As if you didn't
_know!_ When you have never been down in these parts all the time he
has been away! (_Unpacking a flannel vest and a respirator._) Yes. He
turned up last night, quite unexpectedly.

_Mopsa._ Then it was _that_ that drew me out here! I felt I _must_. My
poor dear mother, KAIA,--she that was a Miss FOSLI, you know,--was
like that. She always felt _she_ must. It's heredity. Surely you can
understand _that?_

_Spreta_ (_takes out a bottle of cough mixture, and closes the bag
with a snap_). I am not quite a fool, my dear. But really, when you
have such a firm admirer in Mr. BLOCHDRÄHN----!

_Mopsa._ He is such a mere bachelor. I never could feel really
attracted to any unmarried man. All that seems to me so utterly
unmaidenly. (_Changing the subject._) How _is_ dear ALFRED?

_Spreta._ Dear ALFRED is tired, but perfectly transfigured by his
trip. He has never once been away from me all these years. Only think!

[Illustration: "He backs out cringingly.... Mopsëman slips out after
him."]

_Mopsa._ That would account for it certainly. And I really think he
deserved some little outing. (_With an outburst of joy._) Why, I
shouldn't wonder if he has positively finished his great big book
while he has been away!

_Spreta_ (_with a half smile_). Shouldn't you? _I_ should. But he has
not mentioned it--perhaps he was too tired. And he has been trying to
teach that miserable Little MOPSËMAN tricks ever since he came back. I
never _did_ care about dogs myself, and really ALFRED is so perfectly
absurd about him. Oh, here he is.

    ALFRED FRÜYSECK _enters, followed by_ Little MOPSËMAN _on his
    hind legs_. ALFRED _is a weedy, thin-haired man of about
    thirty-five (or thirty-six) with tinted spectacles and limp
    side-whiskers_. MOPSËMAN _wears a military tunic and a shako very
    much over one eye, and is shouldering a small toy musket. He is
    bandy-legged, with a broad black snout and beautiful intelligent
    eyes. His tail is drooping and has lost all its hair._

_Alfred_ (_beaming_). Just see what really wonderful progress Little
MOPSËMAN has made already with his drill. Why, my dearest MOPSA!
(_Goes up and kisses her with marked pleasure._) You have come here
the very morning after my return? Fancy _that_.

_Mopsa_ (_gazes fixedly at him_). I couldn't keep away. You are
looking quite splendid! And how have you got on with your wonderful
large book, ALFRED? I felt so sure it would go so easily when once you
had got away from dear SPRETA.

_Alfred_ (_shrugging his shoulders_). It _did_--wonderfully easily.
The truth is my thick fat book on _Canine Idiosyncrasy_--h'm--has
gone--entirely out of my head. I have been trying thinking for a
change. It's easier than writing.

_Spreta._ Yes, ALFRED, I can understand that. And then, when you had
never really got farther than the title----!

_Alfred_ (_smiling at her_). No farther than _that_. Somehow, none of
the FRÜYSECKS ever _do_. My family is a thing apart. And now I have
determined to devote my whole time to Little MOPSËMAN. I am going to
foster all the noble germs in him, create a conscious happiness in his
mind. (_With enthusiasm._) That is my true vocation.

_Spreta._ You shouldn't have dressed the poor dog up like that. It
does make him look so utterly ridiculous!

_Alfred_ (_speaking lower and seriously_). Only in the eyes of the
Philistines who couldn't see any pathos in poor Mrs. SOLNESS and her
nine dolls. The truly reverent have no sense whatever of the
ridiculous. Still, it would certainly be better in future to keep
Little MOPSËMAN indoors, because if the dogs in the streets saw him in
those clothes--(_clenching his hands_)--and after he has had that
unfortunate accident to his tail, too!

_Spreta._ ALFRED, I won't _have_ you bringing up that again! There's
someone knocking. Come in.

_The Varmint-Bl[=o]k_ (_enters softly and noiselessly. He is a slouching,
sinister figure, in a fur cap and a flowered comforter. He has a large
green gingham in one hand, and in the other a bag which writhes
unpleasantly_). Humbly beg pardon, your worships, but you don't happen
to feel in the humour to see how this little wounded warrior here
(_points to_ MOPSËMAN) would polish off the lovely little ratikins, do
you?

_Alfred_ (_with suppressed indignation_). We most certainly do _not_.
He is intended for higher things. Get out, you have frightened him
under the sofa.

_The Varm.-B._ He'll come round right enough.... There, didn't I
_tell_ you! See how he sniffs at my legs. It's wonderful what a fancy
dawgs _do_ seem to take to me--follow me _anywhere_, they will. (_With
a chuckling laugh._) Seems as if they'd _got_ to.

_Spreta._ There is certainly no accounting---- And what becomes of
them when they do?

_The Varm.-B._ (_with glittering eyes_). Oh, _they_'re safe enough,
the sweet little creatures, lady. I'm very kind to 'em. And if I could
only induce you to let your lovely poodlekin tackle a dozen rats,
which 'ud be a holiday to a game little sportin' dawg like him----
_Not_ this mornin'? then here's a loving good-day to you all, and
thank ye kindly for nothing.

    _He backs out cringingly, as_ SPRETA _retires to the verandah,
    fanning herself elegantly with her pocket-handkerchief_; MOPSËMAN
    _slips out after him, unnoticed by all_. ALFRED _sees_ MOPSA'S
    _portfolio_.

_Alfred_ (_to_ MOPSA). And have you positively lugged this thing all
the way out here. Wasn't it heavy?

_Mopsa_ (_nods_). It _had_ to be. It contains all the letters written
to my poor dear Mother--by Master-builder SOLNESS, you know. My Mother
had such a rich, beautiful past. I thought, ALFRED, we might look them
through together quietly some evening, when SPRETA is out of the way.

    [_Looks attentively at him._]

_Alfred_ (_uneasily, to himself_). Oh, my good gracious! (_Aloud._) It
would certainly _have_ to be some evening when---- But on the whole,
perhaps, I--I really almost think we had better---- It isn't as if you
were _really_ my second cousin!

_Spreta_ (_re-entering from verandah_). Has that horrible person with
the rats gone? He has given me almost a kind of turn.

_Alfred._ He is a sort of itinerant Trope, I suppose. Talking of
turns, did I tell you that I, too, have experienced a kind of inward
revolution away up there among the peaks?... I _have_.

_Spreta._ Oh, heavens! ALFRED, was it the cookery at those high
mountain hotels?

_Alfred_ (_soothingly, patting her head_). Not altogether--be very
sure of _that_. But it is rather a long story. I should recommend you
to sit down. (_They sit down expectantly._) I will try to tell you.
(_Gazing straight before him._) When I look back into the vague mists
that enshroud my earliest infancy, I seem almost to----

_Spreta_ (_slaps him_). Oh, for goodness' sake, ALFRED, do skip the
introduction!

_Alfred_ (_disappointed_). It was the most interesting part! But the
long and the short of it is that I have resolved to renounce writing
my wonderful work on _Canine Idiosyncracy_! I am going to act it out
instead--on Little MOPSËMAN. (_With shining eyes._) I intend to
perfect the rich possibilities that lie hidden in that rather
unprepossessing poodle. _There!_

_Spreta_ (_holding aloof from him_). And is that _all?_

_Alfred._ H'm, yes, _that_'s all. But you never _did_ properly
appreciate poor Little MOPSËMAN!

_Mopsa_ (_pressing his hand_). She never did, ALFRED. But _I_ do. And
we will teach him the loveliest new tricks together. (_Fixes her eyes
on him._) Just you and I.

_Spreta._ ALFRED, I won't have the dog taught any tomfoolery. You
shall not divide yourself up like that. Do you hear?

_Sanitary Engineer Blochdrähn_ (_enters by door_). Aha, so you've got
your husband thoroughly in hand, as usual, eh, Mrs. FRÜYSECK? (_To the
others._) I bring glorious news. I have just been called in to see to
the Schoolhouse drains _again!_ I only laid them last Autumn; but
there seems to be a leakage somewhere. Quite a big piece of new work,
really!

_Mopsa._ And you are beaming with joy over _that?_

_San. Eng. Bloch._ I am indeed. And afterwards I have several
important drains to disconnect at the great new hotel in Christiania,
and the most tremendous scientific safeguards to grapple with and
overthrow. What a glorious thing it is to be a plumber and make a
little extra work for oneself in the world! Miss MOPSA, can I persuade
you to take a little turn in the garden? Do!

    [_Offers his arm._

_Mopsa_ (_takes it_). Oh, I don't mind--provided you don't talk either
shop or sentiment.

    [_They go out together._

_Spreta_ (_looks after them_). What a pity it is that MOPSA can't take
more to that Mr. BLOCHDRÄHN, _isn't_ it, ALFRED?

    [_Looks searchingly at him._

_Alfred_ (_wriggles_). Oh--er--I don't know. For then we should see so
much less of her.

_Spreta_ (_vehemently_). Oh, come! So much the better! (_Clutching him
round the neck._) I want you all to myself, ALFRED. I love you so much
I could throttle you. I've a good mind to, as it is!

_Alfred_ (_choking_). You _are!_ My loyal, proud, true-hearted SPRETA,
d-don't!

    [_Gently releases himself._

_Spreta._ You have ceased to care for me. Don't deny it, ALFRED!

    [_Bursts into convulsive weeping._

_Alfred._ I will frankly admit that, like most married Norwegians, I
am--h'm--subject to the Law of Change.

_Spreta_ (_with increasing excitement_). I saw that so plainly last
night. I sent out for some champagne, ALFRED, expressly for _you_. And
you didn't drink a drop of it!

    [_Looks bitterly at him._

_Alfred._ I knew the brand. (_With a gesture of repulsion._)
Gooseberry, my dear, gooseberry!

_Spreta._ You never even kissed me, either. But you can kiss _MOPSA!_
ALFRED, if you imagine _I_ am the kind of person to play
gooseberry----

_Alfred._ Need dramatic dialogue descend to these sordid details?
Really this is verging on a mere vulgar row! And when you know, too,
how I have always regarded MOPSA almost as a sort of sister!

_Spreta._ I know that sort of sister, ALFRED. She comes from Norway!
But I am none of your fish-blooded Mrs. SOLNESSES, or half-witted
BEATA ROSMERS, and I'm not going to _stand_ it! I decline to share you
with anything or anybody--whether it's a thick fat book that never
gets even begun, or a designing minx that helps you in your precious
"vocation," or a gorging little mongrel, with his evil red and green
eyes, that I'm often tempted to wish at the bottom of the fiord!

    [_Confused cries and barks are heard outside._

_Alfred_ (_shocked_). SPRETA! When I am going to bring all his desires
into harmony with his digestion! _How_ unkind of you! (_Looks out for
a moment._) What in the world are all the dogs barking at down there?

_San. Eng. Bloch._ (_re-entering with_ MOPSA, _by glass door_). Only
some organ-grinder's monkey. They have just frightened it into the
fiord. _Such_ fun!

_Alfred_ (_in an agony of dread_). Can it be our Little----? But he is
burying bones in the back garden. And he is not a _monkey_, either.
And if he were, monkeys can all swim.... What are they saying now?...
Hush!

_San. Eng. Bloch._ (_leans over verandah railings_). They say, "He is
still shouldering the little musket!"

_Alfred_ (_almost paralysed_). The little----it _is_ MOPSËMAN! I
taught him to do it so thoroughly! (_With outstretched arms._) He
cannot shoulder a musket and swim too! (_Glancing darkly at_ SPRETA.)
Woman, you have your wish! Henceforth my life will be one long rankle
of remorse!

    [_Sinks down in the armchair._

_Mopsa_ (_with an affectionate expression in her eyes_). Not _alone_,
ALFRED! We will rankle together--just you and I.

_Alfred_ (_rises, half distracted_). Oh, my gracious goodness!

    [_He rushes down into the garden_

       *       *       *       *       *

THE BATTLE OF EVESHAM.

WHO WON IT?

[Illustration]


DEAR SIR,--The answer to this question is simplicity itself--my League
did it. We got the Labourers Allotments and we gained our _quid pro
quo_ (this phrase has kindly been supplied by a distinguished patron
of ours) in votes. All efforts to prove that IMPEY'S the friend, not
LONG, were in vain. But the credit that it was not so is ours.

    THE SECRETARY OF THE TRULY RURAL LABOURERS' LEAGUE.

DEAR SIR,--From careful inquiries made in London, I'm convinced that
the principles underlying our League resulted in Colonel LONG'S
return. Englishmen are, after all, sportsmen; and Worcestershire is an
integral portion of England. If more proof is wanted, I need only
mention that only one day before the polling we received an
application from Evesham for the formation of a local branch.

    THE SEC. OF THE SPORTIVE LEAGUE.

DEAR SIR,--_We_ did the trick. We had five canvassers per man in the
division, and during the contest we paid 53,219 visits, leaving
2,159,549 leaflets. We've learnt our tactics from organ-grinders who
are paid to go into the next street. Rather than keep us with them,
the electors promise us their votes. Next please!

    THE SECRETARY OF THE IRISH ULSTERICAL BRIGADE.

DEAR SIR,--I believe some were foolish enough to imagine that South
Worcestershire men were going to abandon their COLLINGS to follow Home
Rule. But, as I knew, it _could_ not be, and it was not. The
agricultural labourer knows his friend when he sees him; and Colonel
LONG is M.P. to-day because of the unceasing efforts of the Labourers'
Friend,

    J-SSE C-LL-NGS.

DEAR SIR,--It is very good of you to ask me my opinion. I think that
the Evesham contest ended in the way it did because of (_a_) the
Register, (_b_) the Floods, (_c_) the Out Voters, and (_d_) the
Independent Labour Party. The connection with the last named may not
be obvious. In point of fact, it isn't. But, as a true Liberal, I feel
bound to allege it.

    THE MAN WHO DID NOT GET IN.

DEAR SIR,--I gladly find time to answer the question,--"How did I win
Evesham?" I won it because, whilst my opponent got only 3,585 votes, I
polled 4,760. As 3,585 is, even to the naked eye, distinctly less than
4,760, I was declared elected. In my humble judgment--though I freely
admit that I am an interested party--the Returning Officer took the
only course that was open to him.

    THE MAN WHO DID GET IN.

       *       *       *       *       *

DERBY AND JOAN.

MODERN MIDLAND VERSION.

(_As Sung by Sir W-ll-am H-rc-urt._)

  DERBY, dear, I am old and grey,
  Fifteen years since our wedding day!
      Shadow and shine for every one,
          As the years roll on.
  DERBY, dear, 'tis in vain they try
  To chill your heart, or to lure your eye.
  Ah! dear, we stick, now as then,
  The tenderest wife to the best of men.
      Always the same, DERBY my own.
      Always the same to your old Wife JOAN!

  DERBY, dear, but I did feel riled
  When the Party on PRIMROSE smiled
      Until men whispered, the young Scotch lord,
          Has he greatly scored?
  DERBY, dear, I to Malwood went,
  My ain fireside, with a heart content.
  Ah! dear! though the Cause look queer,
  I feel so much better when you I'm near.
      Always the same, DERBY my own,
      Always the same to your old Wife, JOAN

  Hand-in-hand we still go to-day,
  Hand-in-hand, spite what JOE can say.
      There comes a chance for every one,
          As the years roll on.
  Hand-in-hand, though the _Times_ may sneer.
  (Once to its columns my pen was dear.)
  Ah! dear! I'm sure of you,
  Though Scots go wrong, or the Welsh look blue.
      Always the same, DERBY my own,
      Always the same to your old Wife, JOAN!
      _Always_ the same to devoted JOAN!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A HOME TRUTH.

_Host_ (_sotto voce_). "IS THIS THE _BEST_ CLARET, MARY?"

_Mary_ (_audibly_). "IT'S THE BEST YOU'VE _GOT_, SIR!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"MEAT! MEAT!"

    ["We do not profess to assault every fortress and monopoly at the
    same moment. If we did we should get well thrashed for our pains.
    We take them one by one.... It must be left to those who have the
    responsibility of determining what is to be done, when it is to
    be done, and how it is to be done."--_Sir William Harcourt at
    Derby_.]

_Much-worried Cat's-meat Merchant loquitur:_--

  Confound the cats and drat the dogs! _Sc-a-a-t, Mungo!_ Down,
    _Grimalkin!_
  Ye jest carn't be all sarved at onst, an' so 'taint no use talkin'.
  I've lots o' stuff, ah! quite enough to give ye all yer dinners,
  If ye'll but kindly bide yer time, ye scurry-funging sinners!
  But not a mite! It's bark, yelp, bite; it's flurry, scurry, worry.
  Carn't use my knife upon my life! _Where_'s yer infarnal 'urry?
  At the big lump ye'd like to jump, each one o' ye, full gobble.
  If ye don't stop I'll shut up shop, and leave ye in a 'obble!

  No time, I'm sure to slice and skewer. Ye're greedy, fierce, and narrer.
  Each wants fust glut, _and_ the best cut. Who'd keep a cat's-meat barrer?
  Bah! cat or dog, they're all agog, a-squabble and a-quiver
  For the best paunch, fust cut of haunch, or slice of shin or liver.
  Ye greedy brutes, beware my boots! Your yelping and your yow-ing,
  You scrub-haired pup, won't hurry me up; nor yet your shrill mol-rowing,
  You wild Welsh cat. What _are_ you at, you lurcher? Think you Labour
  Will benefit when you have bit or worried every neighbour?

  Bless my old bones! your snarling tones, my angry Irish tarrier,
  Between you and the grub you'd grab will only raise a barrier.
  Your quarrelsome temper is your cuss, if you could only know it.
  You snap all round like some mad 'ound. Bite _your own tail_--ah! _go_
    it!
  All cat-and-dog arter the prog, all savage, snappy, yappy,
  Upset the lot, and then I 'ope you'll all be bloomin' 'appy!

  Yah! bust the pack o' ye, I says. Your shindy gives me dizziness.
  I'm arf inclined to chuck my "round," or else retire from bizziness.
  It's aggrawacious, that it is, arter such long years sarving ye,
  Picking ye out the chicest lumps, the primest slices carving ye,
  To be a-chivvied like this here! Here's lot o' fust-rate wittles,
  And with your chance of a blow-out you're jest a-playing skittles.
  Won't even give me time to carve, much less a chance to skewer.
  More 'aste less speed! You will not find a maxim wot's much truer,
  For dog, or cat. JACK, SANDY, PAT, _or_ TAFFY--whose first turn it is
  To-day by rights--your spitfire fights may go on for eternities,
  And bring no good, nor yet no food. _Wait_, and ye'll all 'ave suthink,
  But if you will _not_ take your turns, you'll none o' you get nothink!

[Illustration: "MEAT! MEAT!"

H-RC-URT. "NOW LOOK 'ERE--YOU JUST WAIT YOUR TURNS--OR YOU'LL NONE OF
YOU GET NOTHINK!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"ABBEY THOUGHT!"--"_The Quest of the Holy Grail._"

These pictures are being exhibited just at the right time, when the
Arthurian legend is attracting at the Lyceum. Mr. EDWIN A. ABBEY has
been five years at work upon this most striking series. Their beauties
are many: their faults very few, and when these are pointed out to the
Anglo-American artist, he gaily replies, "What's the odds as long as
I'm Abbey!" Which is true; as none but himself can be his parallel.

       *       *       *       *       *

A WILDE "IDEAL HUSBAND."

Mr. OSCAR WILDE'S _Ideal Husband_, at the Haymarket, is an interesting
play up to the end of the Third Act; and if this climax had been
contrived more artistically, and less conventionally, the situation at
the fall of the curtain in this act would have been a very powerful
one. As it is it is frittered away in conventional dialogue, and the
Fourth Act is decidedly weak. It is throughout excellently played by
Miss JULIA NEILSON and Mr. WALLER in the two principal characters. Mr.
HAWTREY'S performance, in spite of his curious habit of raising his
voice to such a pitch as to suggest his playing to the cab-rank
outside, is admirable. There are here and there sharp bits of dialogue
in it, though scarcely a line in the lighter vein that rises above
farcical comedy.

Mr. BISHOP'S _Earl of Caversham_ is a thoroughly natural piece of
acting, and Mr. BROOKFIELD'S _Phipps_, the Butler, a bit of character
so perfectly rendered that, like _Sam Weller's_ Valentine, it makes
you "wish as there was more in it." Miss FANNY BROUGH, having plenty
to say, but not much worth listening to, does her best with a poor
part. Miss MAUDE MILLETT is nice, and Miss FLORENCE WEST as
unsympathetic as her part was intended to be. That when _Sir Robert
Chiltern_ proposed to retire from Parliamentary life no one suggested
to him that he should take "the Chiltern Hundreds" is evidently an
oversight of the author's, which no doubt he now deeply regrets. The
play, though in sharp dialogue not up to Mr. WILDE'S high
spirits-and-water mark, is an unmistakable success.

       *       *       *       *       *

COY CLIENTS.

    _In the new Commercial Court. A thin sprinkling of Juniors, one
    or two Q.C.'s, Ushers, and the usual contingent of people from
    the street who are glad of shelter and a seat, and who do not
    even pretend to take any interest in the proceedings._

[Illustration]

_The Judge._ Odd, that the mercantile community does not even now seem
attracted to this Court. You are sure, Mr. REDBAGGE, that the
inducements which we offer to litigants are widely known?

_Mr. Redbagge, Q.C._ The officer of the Court tells me, m'lud, that he
has sent round circulars to every mercantile establishment in the
City.

_The Judge._ Our scale of commissions is surely generous enough! By
the new Rules of Court which I have made, a bonus of £500 is offered
to any merchant who swears, on affidavit, that he was about to resort
to arbitration but decided to come here instead. Then I think the plan
of giving his head clerk one year's rent of his dwelling and a free
fortnight at Yarmouth for himself and his family, as a reward for
influencing his principal to resort to us, was rather adroit--eh, Mr.
REDBAGGE?

_Mr. Redbagge, Q.C._ Excellent! And the boxes of chocolate to his
door-keeper, and free tickets to the music-halls for other subordinate
members of his establishment, _ought_ to have brought a plethora of
business to this court.

_The Judge._ Quite so. Not to mention the fact that we pay counsel's
and solicitor's fees out of public funds, instead of looking to the
litigants themselves to provide them. If _that_ isn't cheap justice, I
should be glad to know what is.

_Mr. Redbagge_ (_deferentially_). And the mercantile classes must
surely be aware that no Judge on the Bench has a greater knowledge of
the law than your ludship.

_The Judge_ (_ignoring the flattery_). Unfortunately the mercantile
classes seem also to have a knowledge of the law, and not to like what
they know of it. So they resort to the ruinous--I repeat, the
thoroughly ruinous--practice of arbitration.

_Mr. Redbagge._ It is really a serious state of things, m'lud--for us,
not for your ludship. "Those who live to plead, must plead to
live"--and it's a little difficult to plead when--(_breaking
down_)--there are no clients.

_The Judge_ (_soothingly_). We must think of some other plan of
attracting them, I suppose. How would it be if, instead of troubling
them to come here, the Court offered to go to their offices and sit
_there?_ Or perhaps a few baronetcies scattered about among them might
have the desired effect. Well (_rising_) as there are no cases on our
list, and no prospect of any, the Court is forced to adjourn!

    [_Does so_.

       *       *       *       *       *

LINES IN PLEASANT PLACES.

ON THE ICE.

  When the sun was shining brightly,
  When the world was gleaming whitely,
  And Jack Frost held Nature tightly
              In a vice,
  It was joy supreme, though fleeting,
  Fair AMANDA to be greeting,
  When the country side was meeting
              On the ice!

  Happy he whom smile the Fates on,
  Whom they shower _tête-à-têtes_ on,
  How I used to whip her skates on
              In a trice!
  And, as off we'd skim cross-handed,
  Leaving all my rivals stranded,
  I was glad, to be quite candid,
              On the ice!

  How we gave evasive answers,
  When they praised our skill as dancers,
  And to skate a set of lancers
              Would entice;
  How we thought them crude and "crocky"
  Loving pairs to try and jockey
  Into wild delights of hockey
              On the ice!

  To the figure-skating shilling
  Snug inclosure we were willing
  To subscribe--'twas cheap but thrilling
              At the price:
  Yet the busy scandal-riggers
  With sarcastic little sniggers
  Talked of people "cutting figures"
              On the ice!

[Illustration]

  All my heart, as I would hold her
  Little hands in mine, a-smoulder--
  'Twas a fact I nearly told her
              Once or twice:
  But, each time, what put a stopper
  On my declaration proper
  Was a sweet and timely cropper
              On the ice!

  Then the thaw came. Oh, the bother!
  Oh, the words we had to smother!
  Ne'er again we'll find each other
              Half so nice:
  Now AMANDA'S always seizing
  Opportunities of teasing;
  Oh, she wasn't half so "freezing"
              On the ice!

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. R. wants to know where that old quotation comes from, so
applicable now--

    "And Freedom shrieked when PADEREWSKI played!"

Of course Freedom went into the free seats (if any) and shrieked with
delight.

       *       *       *       *       *

ROBERT ON COUNTY COUNSELLERS.

Me and BROWN, and sum two or three of our most intimet frends, has had
a most liberal offer made to us, rite in the werry art of Sent
Pancras, to go out a canwassing for the County Counsellers when the
elections begins shortly.

[Illustration]

I need scarcely say as they havent made much effect upon me, as I
knows em too well from what I hear about em at our own Gildall and the
Manshun House, but the terrems is suttenly werry liberal, both in
refreshments and in promisses, but they all depends upon their
suckcess, and from what I hears that aint likely to be werry great. Of
course in the grand old Citty that wont be not nothink, but ewen in
Sent Pancras I hears as it wont be any think werry grate. I've bin up
to their own Gildall at Charing Cross again, but they does make sitch
dredful long speeches that they quite tires me out, and they are all
about such dredful tiresome subjecs that I soon gits weary on em.

I was told down at Gildall that one of our most poplar aldermen had
quite made up his mind to try and turn out the Prime Minister, Lord
ROSEBERRY, I think his name is, from representing a County Council,
but there must have been sum mistake sum where, for Prime Ministers
aint exactly the sort of gents as is ginerally selected to represent
her most gracious Majesty the QUEEN, as I spose as the PRIME MINISTER
does, and to be a County Counseller as well. No, no, them sort of
things dont exacly go together. Our Gildall peeple dont seem werry
much alarmed about the fuss has has been made about their Unyfecation,
as I think they calls it, which is supposed to mean that they are all
to be turned out of Gildall, and all London to be created into one
great body of Common Counselmen! And what is to become of all our
numerous Aldermen and Deppertys, and settera, not none of us knows a
bit! But of course that's all nothink but mere nonsence, that helps to
keep our reel gentlemen in good humer. They dont seem in werry bad
sperrits, for sum of the most importentest of em all had a grand
meeting on Tuesday last, and laid the werry fust stone of a butiful
new Manshun, werry close to Gildall, which I am told is to cost about
thirty-five thowsand pounds, and will take a hole year to bild, so
that didn't look as if they were quite fritened out of their wits; and
just to show the principle gents among em as there wasn't not nothink
to fear, the nobel Gent as took the chair inwited amost a hundred of
em to dine with him in the most scrumpsheous way possible, and drunk
their helths all round! There was only just about harf a dozen of
County Counsellers present, and they was just about as quiet as they
ginerally is when reel gents is with em.

BROWN tells me as how as he hears that the Prince of WALES is most
strongly oposed to the Old Citty being interfered with, and that amost
all the great House of Lords agrees with him, so there aint much fear
of much being done, after all.

ROBERT.

       *       *       *       *       *

AN APPROPRIATE QUOTATION TO BE PLACED ON THE URN OF THE ASHES OF ONE
CREMATED.--"Well done!"

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM THE QUEER AND YELLOW BOOK.

I.--1894

(_By Max Mereboom._)

[Illustration: _Picture by Our Own Yellow-Booky Daubaway Weirdsley,
intended as a Puzzle Picture to preface of Juvenile Poems, or as
nothing in particular._]

  "Linger longer, LUCY,
    Linger longer, LOO.
  How I'd like to linger longer,
    Linger longer, LOO!"--_Old Ballad._

I suppose there is no one that has not wished, from Time to Time, that
someone else had lived in another Age than his own. I myself have
often felt that it would have been nice to live in 1894; to have seen
the "_Living Pictures_" at the old _Empire_, to have strained my Eyes
for a glimpse of _Mrs. Patrick Campbell_, broken my Cane applauding
_May Yohé_, and listened to the _Blue Hungarians_ while dining, on a
Sunday, at that quaint old Tavern _the Savoy_. At that time the
Beauties from New York had not quite lost their Vogue. CHRISTOPHER
COLUMBUS, who discovered the United States, left it to the Prince of
WALES to invent their inhabitants: personally, I am more implected
with their Botany; and am, indeed, at this moment, engaged in a study
of the Trees in America. Much of this remote Period must remain mobled
in the Mists of Antiquity, but we know that about then flourished the
Sect that was to win for itself the Title of the "_Decadents_." What
exactly this Title signified I suppose no two entomologists will
agree. But we may learn from the Caricatures of the day what the
_Decadents_ were in outward semblance; from the Lampoons what was
their mode of life. Nightly they gathered at any of the Theatres where
the plays of Mr. WILDE were being given. Nightly, the stalls were
fulfilled by Row upon Row of neatly-curled Fringes surmounting
Button-holes of monstrous size. The contrasts in the social Condition
of the time fascinate me. I used to know a boy whose mother was
actually present at the "first night" of _Charley's Aunt_, and became
enamoured of _Mr. Penley_. By such links is one Age joined to another!

I should like to have been at a Private View of the "_New English Art
Club_." There was _Crotchet_, the young Author of the _Mauve
Camellia_; there were _Walter Sickert_, the veteran R.A.; _George
Moore_, the romanticist; _Charles Hawtrey_, the tragedian, and many
another good fellow. The period of 1894 must have been delicious.

Perhaps in my Study I have fallen so deeply beneath the Spell of the
Age, that I have tended to underrate its unimportance. I fancy it was
a Sketch of a Lady with a Mask on, playing the piano in a Cornfield,
in a low dress, with two lighted Candles, and signed "_Aubrey
Weirdsley_," that first impelled me to research.

But to give an accurate account of the Period would need a far less
brilliant Pen than mine; and I look to JEROME K. JEROME and to Mr.
CLEMENT SCOTT.


II.--TOORALOORA. A FRAGMENT.

(_By Charing Cross._)

      * * *

"My hair?" she said. "It touches the ground."

As she spoke, she seized her fringe by the roots and flung it on the
floor.

"A marvellous feat for a European," I murmured with some difficulty.
"Will you have another drink?"

"Yes," said _Tooraloora;_ "I make it a rule always to get intoxicated
in a public-house."

I did not offer her a chair, I flung one at her head. That impulse
towards some physical demonstration, that craving for physical contact
which attacks us go suddenly with its terrific impulse, and chokes and
stifles us, ourselves, beneath it, blinding us to all except itself,
rushed upon _Tooraloora_ then: and she landed me one in the eye. Now,
this was the moment I had been expecting and dreading, practically,
ever since her hand had left my ear the night before--this moment when
it should strike me again. I do not mean consciously, but there are a
million slight, vague, physical experiences and sensations within us
of which the mind remains almost unconscious; and I have no
pretensions to physical courage. For a second I felt the colour rise
to my face. Every expletive that should have been forgotten, I
remembered. My pulses seemed beating as they do in fever, my ears
seemed full of sounds, and I felt the cold touch of the policeman's
grasp like ice upon my shoulder as a voice murmured, "This means forty
shillings or a month."... When we reached the station I flung myself
upon the floor, leaning my head upon my hand, the white powder upon my
coat still lingered. I seemed to hear _Tooraloora_ murmur, "'E don't
know where 'E are!"

       *       *       *       *       *

AT THE OLD MASTERS.

The following selections may assist the Art-student visiting
Burlington House:--

No. 3. By GEORGE ROMNEY. Not so much a "Rum Knee" as a queer left arm.
Gout apparently, skilfully depicted.

No. 5. By Sir HENRY RAEBURN, R.A. _Lorenzo and Jessica_, at 50 and 40
respectively.

No. 9. By Sir JOSHUA REYNOLDS, P.R.A. Selected from _Reynolds'
Miscellany_. Portrait of a gentleman in full uniform, out for a walk,
on a stormy day, on the sea-shore. He is evidently saying, "Here's a
nice predicament! I've powder on my hair, no hat, and it's coming on
to pour cats and dogs."

No. 13. By Sir JOSHUA REYNOLDS. A Portrait of _The Marquis of Granby_.
Presented, of course, by Mr. WELLER, Senior. Probably the original
sign of the inn of which Mr. W. was proprietor.

No. 16. By GEORGE ROMNEY. _Portrait of Mrs. Farrer_. Charming. Might
go Farrer and fare worse.

No. 24. By GEORGE! . . . ROMNEY. _Portrait of Lady Hamilton._
"Unfinished"--but perfect.

No. 38. "A Constable"--who arrests our attention. This, you may depend
upon it, is a Constable _with a warrant_.

No. 50. By REMBRANT. Man guarding a hawk. Very graceful, but a
Hawk-ward sort of person.

No. 51. By GERARD TERBURG. A lady, after taking something which has
disagreed with her. "Prithee, why so pale?"

No. 68. By VAN DER HELST. It is called a "_Family Group_,"--probably
in consequence of the wife being shown as presenting her husband _with
a hare_.

No. 73. By DICK HALS. Regard the wondrous collars. It is "Collar Day."
Must have been the work of two artists, as this could have been
painted by no one HALS(!!)

No. 94. By Sir THOMAS LAURENCE, P.R.A. "_The bells are a ringing for
Sarah._" Curtain rises and SARAH steps forward to sing.

No. 122. By JACOB JORDAENS. Splendid. "Try our stout, JANE!"

No. 126. By J. M. W. TURNER, R.A. "_Snowstorm._" Wonderful!! But where
was the artist when he took it?

Do not leave without closely examining No. 181, by FRANÇOIS CLOUET,
"_Portrait of a Princess_." And do not neglect the "gems of the
collection" in the Water-colour Room. This is full of "interesting and
remarkable cases" which have been fully reported in all the papers.
The exhibition is open till March 16. Don't miss it.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: DE GUSTIBUS.

_Little Binks._ "I ONLY CARE TO TALK TO WOMEN WHO LET ME MAKE LOVE TO
THEM."

_Big Bounderson._ "_I_ ONLY CARE TO TALK TO WOMEN WHO MAKE LOVE TO
_ME!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

Lord Randolph Churchill.

BORN, FEBRUARY 13, 1849.
DIED, JANUARY 24, 1895.

  Gone!--like a meteor whelmed in night,
    Who should have shone as fame's fixed star!
  Unwelcome loss, when sons of light
    So few and so infrequent are.
  To flare athwart the startled sky,
    A prodigy portentous, fills
  The vision of the vulgar eye,
    The common soul with wonder thrills.
  And much of meteoric glare
    Seemed herald of that steadier course,
  Which, drawing less the general stare,
    Spoke to the wise of light and force.
  Now all's extinct in early gloom,
    Eclipsed in shadow premature.
  A brilliant soul, a bitter doom!
    And who shall read with judgment sure
  The secret of the light that failed,
    The mystery of the fallen star?
  Though whilom worshippers have railed,
    Though clingers to the conqueror's car
  Reviled a vanquished victor's name,
    The brightness of that brief career
  Defies the dullards who defame,
    Confounds the incompetents who sneer.
  But yesterday, in sooth it seems,
    The promise of the platform's pride
  Inspired a Party's youthful dreams,
    And filled to flood their hope's high tide.
  Now all is hushed,--save the sad voice
    Of admiration and regret,
  Which, spite of faction's spleenful noise,
    Ne'er failed stout son of England yet!

       *       *       *       *       *

He took a house in Hampshire. Why? Because
he said he liked to visit his old Hants.

       *       *       *       *       *

A FEELING PROTEST.

Sir,--I have recently seen letters and paragraphs in various
newspapers instigating travellers going abroad to choose the
Folkestone and Boulogne route instead of going _viâ_ Dover and Calais.
I forget what particular reasons are given for advocating this
substitution, nor do I care what they are or what they may be. Why?
Because, first, undeniably _viâ_ Dover to Calais is the shortest
route, and to those of BRITANNIAS'S sons and daughters--gallant
islanders all--who detest the sea as much as does the humble
individual who now addresses you, the saving of twenty minutes or half
an hour, or in some instances it may be even more, of the sea-passage
would be well worth any extra expense (if extra expense there be,
which, an' I remember rightly, is not the case), especially when
aboard such steam-vessels as are now provided; though, be the
steam-vessels what they may, there is still in one and all of them
that peculiar flavour and motion about which I would rather not speak,
or even think, lest I should be unable to finish this important
letter.

But there is yet another reason why the Dover and Calais route is the
best of all ways to the Continent, and that is on account of the
excellent _déjeuner_--still, as I believe, unequalled at any port or
at any station in Europe--served to the many poor hungry and thirsty
travellers quickly, hotly, and as comfortably as the confounded
bustling circumstances of travel will permit. Why the railway company
which takes us to Paris cannot give us three quarters of an hour for
our very necessary toilette (after the sea passage) and our food, and
then do the journey in double quick time, or in the same time as now
for the matter of that (for what does it matter to the accomplished
traveller who "_does_ know where he are" and where he _will_ be, and
has pre-ordered everything wisely and well?), and so get up to Paris
in time for a little late supper and an early bed?

For those who value their digestions, and who love good food and
drink, even when they have but a short time for refreshment, there is
but one route to Paris from London, and that is _viâ_ Calais, _i.e._
_viâ_ the buffet. Only, _cher messieurs les directeurs de la ligne du
Nord_, cannot you possibly manage to extend our luncheon-time at
Calais to just three quarters of an hour, instead of giving us only a
beggarly twenty-five minutes at best, and do the thing well while you
are about it? As to the Boulogne route, well, one goes to Boulogne to
stay, and so the buffet, _en passant_, is of small importance.

May this reach the eyes and touch the hearts of all in authority, for
it is a _cri du c[oe]ur_ from

AN INCONSTANT TRAVELLER.

       *       *       *       *       *

TO ATALANTA.

  Ah, ATALANTA! timely wise,
  When the disdain within your eyes
    That wondrous vision daunted,
  The golden apples, they whose spell
  Both gods and mortals knew right well,
    Eternally enchanted,

  You instantly the race forbore,
  You made your choice for evermore
    And gathered up the burden!
  The ancient spell had conquered you,
  The distant goal you did not rue,
    You won a dearer guerdon!

  Oh, modern ATALANTA, stay,
  When with HIPPOMENES to-day
    You arduously grapple!
  An instant ponder on your case
  If you should ever lose the race,
    And likewise lose the apple!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ANIMAL SPIRITS.

No. II.--SKATING.]

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Delightful reminiscences are these of GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA'S, told in
his own peculiar rattling-off, running-on,
one-anecdote-down-t'other-come-on style. Of all "people he has met" he
has plenty to say, but _nil nisi bonum_; all writ with a magnum-bonum
pen. Once he was a "Gipsy King, ha! ha!" but, long ago, as he tells
us, he renounced all claims to the throne of Bohemia, abdicated,
retired, and, no more a Rad, has led a Reformed Club life. Who wrote
the burlesque Eugene Aram verses, ending with,--

  "And GEORGE AUGUSTUS walked before,
  With gyves upon his wrist"?

All the notabilities of his earlier days were mentioned in that poem,
at least so I believe, for does it not belong to a date when the Baron
had not come within measurable distance of his title when he watched
the great guns from afar with awe; when he saw them in the Cyder
Cellars and at Evans's, both of which night resorts he, having been
first taken there by a kindly but injudicious man-about-town,
subsequently patronised on such holidays as were offered to him by the
jovial nights after the Eton and Harrow matches at Lord's, and on the
eve of such a festival as the University Boat Race. The Baron in those
happy days and nights was attired in the costume in which RICHARD
DOYLE has dressed young _Clive Newcome_ when he accompanied his
father, the Colonel, on that ever memorable evening to The Cave of
Harmony, and heard the song that made him so wrathful. There are no
Cyder Cellars, Coal Holes, and Evans's nowadays, which owlish resorts
were strictly restricted to the use of the male sex, young and old.
But even if a kind, considerate legislature does insist on
extinguishing the lights, and turning us out in the streets at 12.30
precisely, are morality and health so very much benefited by the
process? Isn't it cheerful to read of the pleasantly convivial late
hours in the Georgian Augustan Era? The celebrities at home and abroad
that he knew were legion, and I'll be bound (as the Book said) that he
hasn't emptied his memory stores by many a cupboard full. There is one
sentiment which appeals to the Baron's head, heart, and pocket, and
delighteth him hugely--it is GEORGE AUGUSTUS'S righteous denunciation
of "the unjust and iniquitous income-tax." The Baron says ditto to Mr
G. A. S. at p. 310, vol. ii. _Inter alia_, the autobiographist is
correct in saying that MADISON MORTON'S _Box and Cox_ was concocted
from _Une Chambre à Deux Lits_ "and another French farce," of which,
as he doesn't give the name, the Baron will here take the liberty of
mentioning it. It was a farce with music, that is to say a
_comédie-vaudeville en un acte_, written by Messrs. LABICHE and
LEFRANC, and produced at the Palais-Royal in 1846. Its name was
_Frisette_. _Box and Cox_ was produced in 1847 at the Lyceum. Very
little furniture for the English farce was taken from _Une Chambre à
Deux Lits_, but packages of dialogue were handed in to _Box and Cox_
from _Frisette_.

THE BARON DE B.-W.

[Illustration: In the Baron's Good Books.]

       *       *       *       *       *

A GOD IN THE OS-CAR.

    ["Amongst the candidates for the Regius Professorship of History
    at Cambridge is Mr. OSCAR BROWNING."--_Daily Paper._]

  The History Professorship--
    Who'll from the PREMIER get the post?
  Here's Mr. OSCAR BROWNING, one
    Whose name is chosen from the host.

  But should Lord R. o'erlook his claim,
    Oh! will O. B. be wildly riled.
  In fact, will OSCAR BROWNING then
    Develop into OSCAR WILDE?

       *       *       *       *       *

QUEER QUERIES.--COSTLY COLOURS.--Could some reader inform me whether
it would be of any use to request the Works Committee of the London
County Council to paint my back door for me? It has become a little
discoloured through age, and a local carpenter has offered to put on
"two coats of good sage-green enamel paint" for five-and-sixpence. But
as I see that the Works Committee only spent £2,186 over the painting
of Hammersmith Bridge, I fancy that it would be cheaper to employ
them, if I could. It is pleasant to think what exceptionally fair
wages they must have paid over this job (using the word in its natural
meaning), and how much time the poor men engaged in it must have been
able to give to their family circles. This is as it should be.--TRUE
PROGRESSIVE.

       *       *       *       *       *

NIAGARA HALL.--They say the sham ice here is almost perfect, very
nearly as good as the real ice, in fact so little is the difference
between the real and sham that a skater, unless he had tried it, would
hardly real-ice it! The band plays, "Hwfa (Williams) of thee I'm
fondly dreaming!" as the _patineurs_ and _patineuses_ who have paid
their three or five shillings glide about at the rate of either
eighteenpence or two-and-sixpence a foot.