Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Malcolm Farmer,
Wayne Hammond and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdp.net






Punch, Or the London Charivari

Volume 107, October 27th 1894

edited by Sir Francis Burnand




[Illustration: AN INFORMAL INTRODUCTION.

_'Arry (shouting across the street to his "Pal")._ "HI! BILL! THIS IS
'ER!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

POLYCHROME ENGLISH.

    _A short suburban dialogue, illustrating the deplorable downward
    spread of the New Colour-descriptiveness, as exemplified in such
    works as the "Arsenic Buttonhole."_

SCENE--_Peckham._ CHARACTERS--BILL, _a Greengrocer_. JIM, _an Oil and
Colour Man_.

_Jim._ 'Ow are yer, BILL? Fine pink morning, yn't it?

_Bill._ Um, a shyde too migenta for me, mate--'ow's yerself?

_Jim._ Oh, I'm just gamboge, and the missus, she's bright vermilion.
'Ow's _your_ old Dutch?

_Bill._ She's a bit off colour. Pussonally, I'm feelin' lemon yaller,
hall through a readin' o' this yer Pioneer kid.

_Jim._ Buck up, mate; you've no call to be yaller, nor a perminent bloo,
heither! 'Ow's tryde?

_Bill._ Nothin' doin'. Wy, I ain't sold an indigo cabbige or a chocolate
tater to-day. It's enuff to myke a cove turn blackleg, s'elp me!

_Jim._ Well, I'm a tyking pupils--leastways, I've a young josser of a
bankclurk come messin' around my pyntshop, wantin' to know wot sort o'
_noise_ raw humber mykes, an' wot's the _feel_ o' rose madder. I gives
'im the tip--'arf a crown a go!

_Bill._ Well, that _is_ a tyke-down! 'E must be a bloomin' green-horn!

_Jim._ Yus, a carnation green-horn, you tyke it from me! I've done 'im
vandyke brown, _I_ tell yer! I don't think 'e'll hever pynt the tarn
red!

_Bill._ Blymy, you're a knockout! Look 'ere, mate, now you've got the
ochre, you'll stand 'arf a quartern at the "Blue Pig," eh?

    [_Exeunt ambo._

       *       *       *       *       *

By an Old Bachelor.

      "Are children humorous?" the _Spectator_ asks.
      Practical jokers are they, every one of them;
    Their laughter my poor tympanum sorely tasks,
      But I'll be hanged if I can see the _fun_ of them!

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTERS FROM A DÉBUTANTE.

My Dear MARJORIE,--You remember CECIL CASHMORE? Of course no theatricals
could be a success unless he took the entire management. He is a
celebrated private performer, and his name is frequently seen in
"Amateur Dramatic Notes," where he is freely compared to COQUELIN,
ARTHUR ROBERTS, IRVING, and CHARLES KEAN, in his earlier manner--I mean
CHARLES KEANE'S earlier manner, not CECIL'S. He always greets me with,
"Oh, I'm so afraid of you. I believe you're very cross with me"; and his
parting words are invariably "_Good_-bye; I'm coming to see you _so_
soon!" CISSY--everyone calls him CISSY--seems to be a little particular,
not to say fidgetty.

BABY BEAUMONT heard him say to his valet, "Take away that
eau-de-cologne--it's corked." He seems to think himself ill, though he
looks blooming; and says he has neurasthenia. He's always going through
some "course," or "treatment." One hears him cry to the footman who
hands him a forbidden dish, "Good Heavens, my dear man, don't offer me
_that_--I'm under JOWLES!"

[Illustration]

We wanted to act _The School for Scandal_, but CISSY has persuaded us to
get up a burlesque of his own--_Red Riding Hood_. I am to be _Red Riding
Hood_!!! I am delighted. I have never acted before; but they say I have
only to trip on with a basket. BABY declared he would be a Proud Sister.
In vain he was told there were no Proud Sisters in _Red Riding Hood;_ he
seemed to have set his heart on it so much that CISSY has written one in
for him. Now BABY is happy, designing himself a gorgeous frock, and
passing hours in front of a looking-glass, trying various patterns
against his complexion. All the strength of the piece falls upon CISSY,
who plays the _Wolf_, and has given himself any amount of songs and
dances, lots of "serious interest," and all the "comic relief." He says
it's not an ordinary burlesque, but a mixture of a problem play and a
comic opera. Captain MASHINGTON is to play the Mother, so I see a good
deal of him. (The LORNE HOPPERS are in Scotland). We had had sixteen
rehearsals when LADY TAYMER suddenly horrified us by saying it seemed so
much trouble--why not give it up, and if we wanted a little fun, black
our faces and pretend to be niggers!! Of course, we would not listen to
her. I hear Captain MASHINGTON rehearsing his part every morning,
quietly, in the billiard-room. He never can remember the lines

    "Good bye, my dear, now mind you're very good,
    And shun the dangers lurking in the wood."

He thinks the mother ought to kiss _Red Riding Hood_ before she starts.
_I_ think _not_. We asked CISSY. He says it's optional.... CISSY rose
with the owl to-day, and said he was not well. A little later he
came and told us complacently that he had been looking it up
in the Encyclopedia, and found he had "every symptom of _acute_
lead-poisoning." He added that there was nothing to be done.

"I thought there was something wrong with you yesterday," said BABY.
"You declined all nourishment between lunch and tea."

"By the way," said CISSY, pretending not to hear, "MASHINGTON really is
not quite light enough for the Mother. You should persuade him to go
through a course, Miss GLADYS."

"He's just been through a course," I said, "at Hythe."

"My dear lady, I don't mean musketry. He ought to consult CASTLE JONES,
the specialist. No soup, no bread, no potatoes--saccharine. What are
_you_ allowed?" turning to BABY, who was sitting on a window seat eating
_marrons-glacés_ out of a paper-bag.

This sight seemed to infuriate our manager. He made a wild dart at BABY,
saying, "Oh, look at this; it's fatal, positively fatal!" snatched
violently at the bag, secured a chestnut, and calmly walked out of the
room eating it and saying it was delicious.

I had just come home from a very nice drive with JACK--I mean Captain
MASHINGTON--when I found a letter from ORIEL. He says he is engaged to
Miss TOOGOOD. The matter is to be kept a profound secret for the
present.... He asks me, _for the sake of the past_, to try and get him a
stamp of the Straits Settlements, in exchange for a Mauritian.... She
collects stamps too--it must have been the bond of union.... How fickle
men are! It's enough to disgust one with human nature. I know I broke it
off, but still----

 Ever your loving friend,      GLADYS.

I wonder if Miss TOOGOOD will have a bangle. I should like to advise her
not to have it _rivetted on_. It's such a bother getting them filed off.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "BUT OH, IT WAS SUCH AN 'ORRIBLE TAIL!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. PROWLINA PRY.

    You hope you don't intrude? PROWLINA PRY
      You do, you _do_! In ignorance it may be,
    The _rôle_ of RHADAMANTHUS you would try,
      With scarce the fitness of a bumptious baby.
    With folly's headlong haste you would rush in
      Where well-tried wisdom treads with fear and trembling.
    Gregarious Silliness would cope with Sin;
    But when geese swarm what comes of _such_ assembling?

    Cackle, and cant, and chaos! Needless noise,
    Meddling and mischief and sheer moral muddle!
    Reformers must not act like gutter-boys
      Who rake up mud, stir each malodorous puddle.
    Life's purlieus are defiled; will it avail
      To grub and rake in reeking slum and by-way,
    Until the foul infection loads the gale,
      And pestilence stalks boldly in the highway?

    PROWLINA PRY, your purview is too small;
      Life is not plumbed by microscopic peeping,
    And Nature is too large for nursery-thrall.
      The globe is _not_ in Mrs. GRUNDY'S keeping.
    Clear sense, and not lop-sided sentiment,
      Must front Society's perplexing puzzles;
    Humanity, when roused, has ever rent
      _Partington_ policies of mops and muzzles.

    Humanity is a most complex thing,
      Not simple as a gag or feeding-bottle.
    You, lest it stray, would rob it of its wing.
      Lest it feed ill would simply close its throttle.
    The Puritanic plan in a new guise!--
      A female _Praise-God-Barebones_ now would rule us.
    We Britons, who have baffled our male _Prys_,
      Are little like to let she-ones befool us.

    Unclean! Unclean! 'Twas the old lepers' cry,
      You'd silence them and call it--purifying!
    Drive swine possessed of devils from their sty,
      And bid them spread infection as they're flying!
    Did some steep place lead down into the sea
      Of dead oblivion and sheer extirpation,
    'Twere well to scourge them thither. What if, free,
      They carry foul contagion through--a nation?

    Thousands of fellow-creatures flung from work
      At the mere pen-stroke of a hasty censor!--
    An unconsidered trifle Zeal may shirk!
      But Sense may not, nor Justice! They are denser
    Than _Punch_ imagines, our new Bumble-band,
      If Mistress PRY'S decision they abide by;
    But _should_ they fail us, _Punch_ throughout the land
      Will wake the People prudes and prigs are tried by!

    Petticoat-government, PROWLINA PRY,
      Of this peculiar sort will scarcely suit us.
    Such cases clear collective sense must try,
      Not a she-DRACO or a lady-BRUTUS.
    To sweeten our poor world we all may strive,
      But life's not one long Puritanic Sunday;
    And the great World while manhood is alive,
      Shall not be wholly swayed by Mrs. GRUNDY.

    PROWLINA PRY Society's festering ills
      Will not be healed by your pragmatic plaster.
    Tare-rooting that the growing corn-crop kills
      Was not the plan or counsel of the Master.
    You with rash hand would wield the whip of cords
      _He_ raised but once in righteous indignation.
    Heed the great lesson that the fact affords,
      And leave our woes to Wisdom's mild purgation.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MRS. PROWLINA PRY.--"I HOPE I DON'T INTRUDE!"

    THOUSANDS OF FELLOW-CREATURES FLUNG FROM WORK
      AT THE MERE PEN-STROKE OF A HASTY CENSOR!--
    AN UNCONSIDERED TRIFLE ZEAL MAY SHIRK!
      BUT SENSE MAY NOT, NOR JUSTICE! THEY ARE DENSER
    THAN _PUNCH_ IMAGINES, OUR NEW BUMBLE-BAND,
      IF MISTRESS PRY'S DECISION THEY ABIDE BY;
    BUT _SHOULD_ THEY FAIL US, _PUNCH_ THROUGHOUT THE LAND
      WILL WAKE THE PEOPLE PRUDES AND PRIGS ARE TRIED BY!]

       *       *       *       *       *

TO A VENETIAN POLICEMAN.

    [The _guardia municipale_ of Venice is now dressed like the London
    policeman.]

    That afternoon when first you burst
      Upon my quite bewildered eyes,
    I seemed in London; you are too
      Confusing in that strange disguise.

    The very clothes of blue! It's true
      In black kid gloves you are arrayed,
    No truncheon at your side you hide,
      A sword is openly displayed.

    That vile black helmet yet you get,
      Most dismal head-dress ever planned.
    In Venice this! Where once doge, dunce,
      Dame, doctor, all were gay and grand.

    In that prosaic dress! Oh, bless
      The man, why wear such awful things?
    In Venice long ago, we know,
      The costermongers looked like kings.

    Italians love what's new, so you
      Suit buildings all, _de haut en bas_,
    Restored and new--how bad and sad!
      But you're a still worse _novità_.

    A peeler pacing here--how queer!
      A copper checking crimes and larks,
    When gleams on lone lagoon the moon!
      A bobby's beat beside St. Mark's!

       *       *       *       *       *

BY A BIRKENHEAD MAN.--The LEVER, though strong, could not _quite_ lift
the Liberal minority into power, but it brought the Conservative
majority down to its LEES!

       *       *       *       *       *

LYRE AND LANCET.

(_A Story in Scenes._)

PART XVII.--A BOMB SHELL.

SCENE XXVI.--_A Gallery near the Verney Chamber._ TIME--_About_ 10.30
P.M.

_Spurrell_ (_to himself_). I must say it's rather rough luck on that
poor devil. I get his dress suit, and all _he_ gets is my booby-trap!
(PHILLIPSON, _wearing a holland blouse over her evening toilette,
approaches from the other end of the passage; he does not recognise her
until the moment of collision_.) EMMA!! It's never _you_! How do you
come to be _here_?

_Phillipson_ (_to herself_). Then it _was_ my JEM after all! (_Aloud,
distantly._) I'm here in attendance on Lady MAISIE MULL, being her maid.
If I was at all curious--which I'm not--I might ask you what _you're_
doing in such a house as this; and in evening dress, if you please!

_Spurr._ I'm in evening dress, EMMA, such as it is (not that I've any
right to find fault with it); but I'm in evening dress (_with dignity_)
because I've been included in the dinner party here.

_Phill._ You must have been getting on since _I_ knew you. Then you were
studying to be a horse-doctor.

_Spurr._ I _have_ got on. I am now a qualified M.R.C.V.S.

_Phill._ And does that qualify you to dine with bishops and countesses
and baronets and the gentry, like one of themselves?

_Spurr._ I don't say it does, in itself. It was my _Andromeda_ that did
the trick, EMMA.

_Phill. Andromeda?_ They were talking of that downstairs. What's made
you take to scribbling, JAMES?

_Spurr._ Scribbling? how do you mean? My handwriting's easy enough to
read, as you ought to know very well.

_Phill._ You can't expect me to remember what your writing's like; it's
so long since I've seen it!

_Spurr._ Come, I like that! When I wrote twice to say I was sorry we'd
fallen out; and never got a word back!

_Phill._ If you'd written to the addresses I gave you abroad----

_Spurr._ Then you _did_ write; but none of the letters reached me. I
never even knew you'd _gone_ abroad. I wrote to the old place. And so
did you, I suppose, not knowing I'd moved my lodgings too, so
naturally---- But what does it all matter so long as we've met and it's
all right between us? Oh, my dear girl, if you only knew how I'd worried
myself, thinking you were---- Well, all that's over now, isn't it?

    [_He attempts to embrace her._

_Phill._ (_repulsing him_). Not quite so fast, JAMES. Before I say
whether we're to be as we were or not, I want to know a little more
about you. You wouldn't be here like this if you hadn't done _something_
to distinguish yourself.

_Spurr._ Well, I don't say I mayn't have got a certain amount of what
they call "kudos," owing to _Andromeda_. But what difference does that
make?

_Phill._ Tell me, JAMES, is it _you_ that's been writing a pink book all
over silver cutlets?

_Spurr._ Me? Write a book--about cutlets--or anything else! EMMA, you
don't suppose I've quite come to that! _Andromeda_'s the name of my
bull-dog. I took first prize with her; there were portraits of both of
us in one of the papers. And the people here were very much taken with
the dog, and--and so they asked me to dine with them. That's how it was.

_Phill._ I should have thought, if they asked one of you to dine, it
ought to have been the bull-dog.

_Spurr._ Now what's the good of saying extravagant things of that sort?
Not that old _Drummy_ couldn't be trusted to behave anywhere!

_Phill._ Better than her master, I daresay. _I_ heard of your goings on
with some Lady RHODA or other!

_Spurr._ Oh, the girl I sat next to at dinner? Nice chatty sort of girl;
seems fond of quadrupeds----

_Phill._ Especially two-legged ones! You see I've been told all about
it!

_Spurr._ I assure you I didn't go a step beyond the most ordinary
civility. You're not going to be jealous because I promised I'd give her
a liniment for one of her dogs, are you?

_Phill._ Liniment! You always _were_ a flirt, JAMES! But I'm not
jealous. I've met a very nice-spoken young man while I've been here; he
sat next to me at supper, and paid me the most beautiful compliments,
and was most polite and attentive--though he hasn't got as far as
liniment, at present.

_Spurr._ But, EMMA, you're not going to take up with some other fellow
just when we've come together again?

_Phill._ If you call it "coming together," when I'm down in the
Housekeeper's Room, and you're up above, carrying on with ladies of
title!

_Spurr._ Do you want to drive me frantic? As if I could help being where
I am! How could I know _you_ were here?

_Phill._ At all events you know _now_, JAMES. And it's for you to choose
between your smart lady-friends and me. If you're fit company for them,
you're too grand for one of their maids.

_Spurr._ My dear girl, don't be unreasonable! I'm expected back in the
Drawing Room, and I _can't_ throw 'em over now all of a sudden without
giving offence. There's the interests of the firm to consider, and it's
not for me to take a lower place than I'm given. But it's only for a
night or two, and you don't really suppose I wouldn't rather be where
you are if I was free to choose--but I'm _not_, EMMA, that's the worst
of it!

_Phill._ Well, go back to the Drawing Room, then; don't keep Lady RHODA
waiting for her liniment on my account. I ought to be in my ladies'
rooms by this time. Only don't be surprised if, whenever you _are_ free
to choose, you find you've come back just too late--that's all!

    [_She turns to leave him._

_Spurr._ (_detaining her_). EMMA, I won't let you go like this! Not
before you've told me where I can meet you again here.

_Phill._ There's no place that I know of--except the Housekeeper's Room;
and of course you couldn't descend so low as that.... JAMES, there's
somebody coming! Let go my hand--do you want to lose me my character!

    [_Steps and voices are heard at the other end of the passage; she
    frees herself, and escapes._

_Spurr._ (_attempting to follow_). But, EMMA, stop one---- She's
gone!... Confound it, there's the butler and a page-boy coming! It's no
use staying up here any longer. (_To himself, as he goes downstairs._)
It's downright _torture_--that's what it is! To be tied by the leg in
the Drawing-Room, doing the civil to a lot of girls I don't care a blow
about; and to know that all the time some blarneying beggar downstairs
is doing his best to rob me of my EMMA! Flesh and blood can't stand it;
and yet I'm blest if I see any way out of it without offending 'em all
round.

    [_He enters the Chinese-Drawing-Room._

SCENE XXVII.--_The Chinese Drawing Room._

_Miss Spelwane._ At last, Mr. SPURRELL! We began to think you meant to
keep away altogether. Has anybody told you _why_ you've been waited for
so impatiently?

_Spurr._ (_looking round the circle of chairs apprehensively_). No. Is
it family prayers, or what? Er--are they over?

_Miss Spelw._ No, no; nothing of that. Can't you _guess_? Mr. SPURRELL,
I'm going to be very bold, and ask a great, _great_ favour of you,
I don't know why they chose _me_ to represent them; I told Lady
LULLINGTON I was afraid my entreaties would have no weight; but if you
only would----

_Spurr._ (_to himself_). They're at it again! How many _more_ of 'em
want a pup! (_Aloud._) Sorry to be disobliging, but----

_Miss Spelw._ (_joining her hands in supplication_). Not if I
_implore_ you? Oh, Mr. SPURRELL, I've quite set my heart on hearing
you read aloud to us. Are you really cruel enough to refuse?

_Spurr._ Read aloud! Is _that_ what you want me to do? But I'm no
particular hand at it. I don't know that I've ever read aloud--except a
bit out of the paper now and then--since I was a boy at school!

_Lady Cantire. What's_ that I hear? Mr. SPURRELL professing incapacity
to read aloud? Sheer affectation! Come, Mr. SPURRELL, I am much
mistaken if you are wanting in the power to thrill all hearts here.
Think of us as instruments ready to respond to your touch. Play upon
us as you will; but don't be so ungracious as to raise any further
obstacles.

_Spurr._ (_resignedly_). Oh, very well, if I'm required to read, _I_'m
agreeable.

    [_Murmurs of satisfaction._

_Lady Cant._ Hush, please, everybody! Mr. SPURRELL is going to read. My
dear Dr. RODNEY, if you _wouldn't_ mind just---- Lord LULLINGTON, can
you hear where you are? Where are you going to sit, Mr. SPURRELL? In the
centre will be best. Will somebody move that lamp a little, so as to
give him more light?

_Spurr._ (_to himself, as he sits down_). I wonder what we're supposed
to be playing at! (_Aloud._) Well, what am I to read, eh?

_Miss Spelw._ (_placing an open copy of "Andromeda" in his hands with a
charming air of deferential dictation_). You might begin with
_this_--such a _dear_ little piece! I'm dying to hear _you_ read it!

_Spurr._ (_as he takes the book_). I'll do the best I can! (_He looks at
the page in dismay._) Why, look here, it's _Poetry_! I didn't bargain
for that. Poetry's altogether out of my line! (Miss SPELWANE _opens her
eyes to their fullest extent, and retires a few paces from him; he turns
over the leaves backwards until he arrives at the title-page_.) I say,
this is rather curious! Who the dickins is CLARION BLAIR? (_The company
look at one another with raised eyebrows and dropped underlips._)
Because I never heard of him; but he seems to have been writing poetry
about my bull-dog.

_Miss Spelw._ (_faintly_). Writing poetry--about your bull-dog!

_Spurr._ Yes, the one you've all been praising up so. If it isn't meant
for her, it's what you might call a most surprising coincidence, for
here's the old dog's name as plain as it can be--_Andromeda_!

    [_Tableau._

[Illustration: "You might begin with _this_--such a _dear_ little
piece!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"LIVING PICTURES."

[Illustration: "I'm coming to _take_ you!"]

The Downey ones, meaning thereby the photographers W. & D. "of that
ilk," have produced some excellent photographic portraits in their fifth
series recently published. THE CZAREVICH and The Right Hon. HENRY
CHAPLIN, M.P., two sporting names well brought together, and both
capital likenesses, though the Baron fancies that THE CZAREVICH has the
best of it, for secret and silent as Mr. CHAPLIN is as a politician,
yet did he never manage to keep so dark as he is represented
in this picture. Here, too, is Mr. CHARLES SANTLEY--"_Charles our
friend_"--looking like a mere boy with "a singing face," where "Nature,
smiling, gave the winning grace." Mr. SYDNEY GRUNDY, _endimanché_, is
too beautiful for words. But the picture of Mrs. BANCROFT, wearing (in
addition to a trimmed fur cloak) a wonderful kind of "Fellah!
don't-know-yar-fellah!" expression, at once surprised, pained, and hurt,
does not at all represent the "little Mrs. B." whom the public knows and
loves. "How doth the little busy Mrs. B. delight to bark and bite" might
have been under this portrait, and DOWNEY must be more Downey another
time, and give us a more characteristic presentment of this lively
_comédienne_. The Right Hon. ARTHUR J. BALFOUR is the best of all.
Capital. Just the man: "frosty but kindly." Then there is a first rate
portrait of Miss FANNY BROUGH, and _after her_ comes the King of
SAXONY!! O ALBERT of Saxony! after Miss FANNY BROUGH!! What'll Queenie
CAROLINE say? Perhaps Messrs. DOWNEY, by kind permission of CASSELL &
Co., will explain.

       *       *       *       *       *

BATTLE WITH BACILLI.--Dr. ROUX has been successful against the
Diphtheria Bacillus. He can afford to look on at any number of Bacilli
and exclaim, "Bah! silly!" Unless he pronounces Latin _more Italiano_,
and then he would say "Bah! chilly!" Which would signify that they were
lifeless and harmless. "Bravo ROUX!"

       *       *       *       *       *

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OUR ALL-ROUND STOCK-EXCHANGERS' COMPANY, ENGLAND.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: AWKWARDLY EXPRESSED.

(_A Cosy Corner in a Country House._)

_Hostess._ "THIS _IS_ GOOD OF YOU, MAJOR GREY! WHEN I WROTE I NEVER
EXPECTED FOR A _MOMENT_ THAT YOU WOULD COME!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"WINDING 'EM UP."

    ["If he believed that the majority of the Liberal-Unionist party,
    or indeed any considerable section of them, held the opinion
    which was expressed by this writer in the _Times_, he, for one,
    would at once resign the responsible position which he held, and
    would claim to take up a more independent position, because he
    was certain that their efforts would be fruitless, and that they
    would not succeed in defeating the policy of Home Rule if they
    were to accept the negative position which had been suggested to
    them."--_Mr. Chamberlain at Durham._]

_Showman Joe soliloquiseth:_--

Waxworks indeed! Hah! I've took over the management of 'em, and I
suppose, as _Misther Thleary_ said, I must "make the betht of 'em, not
the wurtht." But I'm a bit tired of the job--sometimes.

Wish I could feel _Mrs. Jarley's_ pride in the whole bag o' tricks! 'Ave
to _purtend_ to, of course. Can't cry creaky waxworks any more than you
can stinking fish. But a more rusty, sluggish, wheezy, wobbly, jerky,
uncertain, stick-fast, stodgy, unwillin' lot o' wax figgers I never
did----Well, there, it tries a conscience of injy-rubber to crack 'em up
and patter of 'em into poppylarity, blowed if it don't!

Kim up, Dook! Dashed if 'e don't look as if 'e fancied hisself the
Sleepin' Beauty, and wanted to forty-wink it for another centry. Look at
the flabby flop of 'im! Jest as though 'e wouldn't move if 'is nose wos
a meltin'. Large as life, and twice as nateral? Wy, a kid's Guy Fox on
the fifth o' November 'ud give 'im hodds, and lick 'is 'ead orf--heasy!
Bin a-ileing 'is works this ever so long, and still 'e moves as if 'is
wittles wos sand-paper, and 'is drink witrol. _Kim_ up!

As to the Markis, well, 'e's a bit older, but dashed if 'e don't move
livelier--when 'e _is_ on the shift. At the present moment 'owever,
utter confloption is a cycle-sprinter to 'im. As if a pair o'
niddity-noddities in "negative" positions was likely to fetch 'em in
front in _these_ days! Yah!

Should like to keep the Old Show a-runnin', too,--leastways, until I can
start a bran-new one of my very own. Won't run to it _yet_, I'm afraid.
Oh, to boss a big booth-full all to myself! I'd show 'em! This
Combination Show--old stock-in-trade of one company, and cast-offs from
another--ain't the best o' bisness arter all. But I _must_ keep 'em
together as a going concern till I can run a star company of my own
choosing. 'Ere, 'and us that ile-can again! Talk about rust and rickets!

Curting about to be rung up? Then I must get 'em in working horder
somehow! 'Ang this Dook! Can't git anythink nateral out of 'im--'cept a
yawn. _That_ 'e does as like as life. Kim up old nose-o'-wax and don't
nod yerself into nothingness! 'Ow much _more_ ile do yer rusty old
innards want to stop their clogging and creaking?

Proprietors beginning to pull long faces at my _pace_? 'Int that I'll
shake the machinery to smithereens by too much haction? Well, I _am_
blowed! Wy, they'd slow down a sick snail, and 'andicap a old tortus,
they would! Tell yer wot it is, if they don't give me a free 'and at the
crank _I shall turn the whole thing up_, so _there_! Some nameless,
nidnoddy, negative old crocks 'ave bin a-earwigging 'em, that's wot's
the matter. But I give 'em the straight tip, if they lend a ear to them
slow-going stick-in-the-muds, _I_ shall jest resign _my_ responserble
persition, and take up a hindependent one--jine the Opposition Show, or
p'r'aps start one o' my own, and _then_ where will they be, I wonder?

_Cling-cling!_ Curting rising? Well, 'ere goes once more then! (_Winding
hard and addressing audience_). "Ladies and gen'l'men! The Himperial and
Royal Grand Unionist Combination Waxworks Show is about to start for the
season! Largest and most life-like set o' wax figgers ever exhibited to
a hadmiring public!! As I wind you will perceive hunmistakeable signs of
hanimation in 'is Grace the Nobble Dook; arter wich, with your kyind
permission, I shall take a turn at the Illustrous Markis!!!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "WINDING 'EM UP."

SHOWMAN JOE. "LADIES AND GEN'L'MEN, 'IS GRACE THE DOOK WILL SHORTLY
BEGIN TO SHOW SIGNS OF HANIMATION--HAFTER WHICH, WITH YOUR KIND
PERMISSION, I WILL PERCEED TO TAKE A TURN AT THE MARKIS!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

WHERE ARE YOU GOING, REVOLTING MAID?

(_New Song to an Old Tune, for the New Woman._)

      [The _Quarterly Review_ says that man will not marry the New
      Woman, which must be the final blow to her ambition.]

    "Where are you going, Revolting Maid?"
    "As far as I may, fair Sir," she said.

    "Shall I go with you, Revolting Maid?"
    "You may follow--behind me, Sir!" she said.

    "What is your object, Revolting Maid?"
    "_Emancipation_, Sir!" she said.

    "Will you marry, Revolting Maid?"
    "Perhaps--on my own terms, Sir!" she said.

    "And what may those terms be, Revolting Maid?"
    "Absolute Liberty, Sir!" she said.

    "Then _I_ shan't wed you, Revolting Maid!"
    "Did anyone ask you, Sir?" she said.

       *       *       *       *       *

TITLE FOR NEW LONDON JAPANESE JOURNAL (WEEKLY).--"_The Happy Dispatch_,
edited by HARI KARI."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SONG OF THE LEADERS.

      When the much-enduring Dockers,
    In the city of the Smoke-Cloud,
    By the banks of the Tems-Ri-Va,
    Struck to gain a larger stipend,
    Lead them on did BURNSIWATHA.

      And the ruler of these matters,
    Who is called the Bry-Tish-Pu-Blyck,
    Took the side of dock-gate casuals,
    Of the somewhat lordly stevedore,
    And informed the proud Dy-Reck-Tas
    That they soon must yield to reason;
    Gave its sympathy in gallons,
    Gave its coin to make a strike-fund;
    So the proud Dy-Reck-Tas yielded.

      But when many moons had vanished,
    Came the rather wild KEIR-HAR-DI,
    Came TOM-MANN the earnest minded,
    Talked of "Independent Labour,"
    Soundly rated BURNSIWATHA
    And all useful Labour-Members.

      Then the strong man, BURNSIWATHA,
    Hurled their language back with interest,
    With the breathing of his nostrils,
    With the tempest of his anger,
    Hurled it back on his assailants.
    Said TOM-MANN was feather-headed,
    Said the rather wild KEIR-HAR-DI
    Was no better than a "bounder."

      And the Independent Lab'rers,
    Not to be outdone in scolding,
    Scandalised poor BURNSIWATHA,
    Said they thought him quite conceited,
    Called him "Boss," likewise "Bull-dozing."

      And the Bry-Tish-Pu-Blyck wondered
    At the manners of these leaders,
    At the Unionists' disunion.
    "Go, my sons," it said, "instanter,
    Go back to your homes and people;
    Slay all ravening labour-sweaters,
    All the Kum-Panies, the giants,
    All the serpents, the Emp-Loias;
    But, for goodness' sake have done with
    Petty piques and jealous slangings;
    Or, next time you ask for coppers
    For the holy cause of Labour,
    You will find these coppers wanting!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: STUDIES IN ANIMAL LIFE. The Chick-a-leary Cochin.]

       *       *       *       *       *

BAYARD AND BOBBY.

    Oh, ROBERT, in our hours of ease
    Butt of those outworn pleasantries,
    Not less with pride thy praise we hear
    Hymned in another hemisphere,
    When BAYARD, chivalrously graphic,
    Tells how you regulate the traffic.
    Firm as a statue on its plinth
    'Midst the vertiginous labyrinth
    Of circus, street and bridge you stand,
    And rule the storm with calm, unarmèd hand.
    Rarely our soldiers of the law
    Do Themis' awful truncheon draw,
    Their Orphic whistle sùbdue can
    All save the crew of HOOLIGAN.
    Though western JONATHAN prefer
    A force not vainly _claviger_,
    Yet BAYARD, taught in English ways,
    That suaver regiment must praise
    That trusts to moral weight and nerve
    And keeps the bludgeon in reserve.
    Stalwart and patient 'midst the strife
    Of all our seething city life,
    When pageants twice or thrice a year
    Throw the whole Empire out of gear,
    Then, stolid symbol of good sense,
    A wonder-worker, _sans_ pretence,
    Fulfill'st authority's decrees,
    With thy familiar "Stand back, please!"
    And rather by that sober charm
    Than by the might of brawny arm,
    The many-headed own thy sway;
    They laugh, they jostle, and obey.
    Worthy thy deeds of loftier rhyme,
    Than topic-song or pantomime.
    Not quite sublime, but on the border,
    Type of our British law and order,
    Thy figure shall be graved upon
    The frieze of some new Parthenon,
    Wherein by glyphic art portray'd
    Reigns the ideal parlour-maid,
    Thy dauntless soul's domestic lure
    Trim, natty, roguish, and demure,
    Waiting the age's unborn LAYARD
    To illustrate the praise of BAYARD.

       *       *       *       *       *

QUERY IN THE COUNTRY.--New agricultural version of an ancient cockney
slang phrase--"Has your farmer sold his mangel?"

       *       *       *       *       *

ADVICE TO ANY DRAMATIC AUTHOR WHO HAS WRITTEN A LENGTHY PIECE.--"Cut,
and run."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE TALE OF A VOTE.

    Bedad, 'twas meself was as plaised as could be
    When they tould me the vote had bin given to me.
    "St. Pathrick," ses Oi, "Oi'm a gintleman too,
    An' Oi'll doine ivry day off a grand Oirish stew."

    The words was scarce seen slippin' off of me tongue
    When who but the Colonel comes walkin' along!
    "Begorrah, 'tis callin' he's afther, the bhoy,
    Oi'm a gintleman now wid a vingeance," ses Oi.

    The Colonel come in wid an affable air,
    An' he sat down quite natteral-loike in a chair.
    "So, RORY," ses he, "'tis a vote ye've got now?"
    "That's thrue though ye ses it," ses Oi, wid a bow.

    "Deloighted!" ses he, "'tis meself that is g'ad,
    For shure ye're disarvin' it, RORY me lad.
    An' how are ye goin' to use it?" ses he,
    "Ye could scarcely do betther than give it to me."

    Oi stared at the Colonel, amazed wid surprise.
    "What! Give it away, Sorr?--Me vote, Sorr?" Oi cries.
    "D'ye think that Oi've waited ontil Oi am gray,
    An' now Oi'm jist goin' to give it away?"

    The Colonel he chuckled, an "RORY," ses he.
    But "No, Sorr," Oi answers, "ye don't diddle me."
    Thin he hum'd an' he haw'd, an' he started agin,
    But he'd met wid his equal in RORY O'FLYNN.

    Thin the smoile died away, an' a frown come instead,
    But for all that he tould me, Oi jist shook me head,
    An' he gnawed his moustache, an' he cursed an' he swore,
    But the more that he argued, Oi shook it the more.

    Thin he called me a dolt an' an ignorant fool,
    An' he said that Oi ought to go back to the school,
    An' he flew in a rage an' wint black in the face,
    An' he flung in a hullaballoo from the place.

    Bedad, Oi was startled. Him beggin' me vote,
    An' he'd three of his own too!--The gradiness o't!
    Ye could scarcely belave it onless it was thrue,
    An' him sittin' oop for a gintleman too!

    Was it betther he thought he could use it than Oi?
    Begorrah, Oi'll show he's mistaken, me bhoy.
    Oi'll hang it oop over me mantlepace shelf,
    For now that Oi've got it, Oi'll kape it meself.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE ZUYDER ZEE.--"Wha' be the Zider Zee?" repeated a Devonian farmer.
"Why, I always thought as the Zee of Exeter were the Zider Zee. Ain't it
pratty well in the middle o' Zider Country?"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: IMPROVEMENTS IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. I.--PROPOSED
HAIR-DRESSING ROOM.

"A series of alterations has, during the recess, been in active progress
within the Houses of Parliament," &c.... "Space will be set apart to
provide dressing-room accommodation and a hair-dressing
saloon."--_Times_, _Wednesday, October 17._]

       *       *       *       *       *

MAYENNAISE VERSUS MAYONNAISE.

(_Vide last Number of "Punch."_)

      Dear _Punch_, your praise
      Of Mayonnaise
    Is certainly most telling:
      But don't it seem
      That such a theme
    Deserves the proper spelling?

      I sometimes look
      At a cookery book
    By A. DUMAS, the younger;
      And find he says
      That May_en_naise
    (A certain cure for hunger)

      Should be spelt so;
      Not with an _o_,
    But like Mayenne, that city,
      Whose siege's fame
      Supplied the name
    Mis-spelt now; more's the pity

      Maybe D's right,
      Although it might
    Be just a yarn he's telling.
      So hope your bard
      Won't be too hard
    And simply "D" my spelling.

       *       *       *       *       *

'TOTHER WAY ABOUT.--Mr. LE GALLIENNE says, epigrammatically, that
"Beauty is the smile on the face of Power." Humph! Gallant _Mr. Punch_
prefers to put it the other way, and say "Power is the smile on the face
of Beauty!" Surely that is equally true. But it's a poor rule (or
paradox) that won't work both ways.

       *       *       *       *       *

MOTTO MOST PRACTICAL FOR ALL WHO ARE COMPELLED TO TRAVEL CONSTANTLY IN
OUR METROPOLITAN PUBLIC CONVEYANCES.--"_In Omnibus Caritas._"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: OUR DECADENTS.

_Algy._ "WHAT'S THE MATTER, ARCHIE? YOU'RE NOT LOOKING WELL!"

_Archie._ "_YOU_ WOULDN'T LOOK WELL, IF YOU'D BEEN SUFFERING FROM
INSOMNIA EVERY AFTERNOON FOR A WEEK!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

VERSE AND CHORAL SUMMING-UP.

    [Of a recently protracted discussion in the _Times_ on "Anglican
    Orders," set to the air of what was once upon a time a popular
    song, entitled _Billy Barlow_.]

    Of _my_ re-appearance,
      My friends, don't complain,
    I've turned up before,
      I shall turn up again!
    We are where we were
      When we started, and so
    For awhile bid good-bye
      To your WILLIAM BARLOW.
        O dear! Lackaday oh!
      What a puzzling old party was
        Bishop BARLOW!

       *       *       *       *       *

Two "General" Favourites.

The one, Sir BOB REID, Q.C., M.P., "to be Attorney-General"; the other,
FRANK LOCKWOOD, Q.C., M.P., "to be Solicitor-General." REID and Right.
Commercial value, one "Bob" and a "Frank," _i.e._ One-and-tenpence the
pair.

       *       *       *       *       *

FUTURE FAME.--Mr. T. E. ELLIS, M.P., "speaking at Colwyn Bay" (unkind of
him, this, for what has Colwyn Bay done to him? Why not address Colwyn
Bay personally instead of "speaking _at_" C. B.), spoke at the same time
"at" the House of Lords. "Were the wishes of the people to be
continually thwarted by an hereditary and irresponsible Chamber?" That's
the style! Twopence coloured. Henceforth Mr. T. E. ELLIS, from being
Nobody in particular, will now be known as "Somebody ELLIS."

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

[Illustration: "He saw the greatest quail before him."]

"Now _that_," quoth the Baron emphatically, as he deposed _My Lady
Rotha_ in favour of the next novelty, what ever it might be, "_that_ is
a romance after my own heart. Mr. STANLEY WEYMAN, author of _A Gentleman
of France_ and _Under the Red Robe_, has not as yet, excellent as were
both those works, written anything so powerful, so artistic, so
exciting, and so all-engrossing (no further participles or adjectives
wanted at present) as _My Lady Rotha_." This romancer has the rare
talent of interesting his reader as much in the action of his crowds as
he does in the fortunes of his individuals. He is the Sir JOHN GILBERT
of the pen; and the Baron cautiously expresses his opinion that _My Lady
Rotha_ is not so very far off _Ivanhoe_. To compare with the works of
other modern romancers, it may be safely said that, from Chapter XXVI.
to Chapter XXIX. inclusive, the situations are as exciting as any ever
invented by RIDER HAGGARD, LOUIS B. STEPHENSON, or JULES VERNE; "which"
the Baron freely admits, "is saying a good deal,--_Treasure Island_
always excepted."

The Baron anticipates "Next please," with pleasure, but at the
same time he would draw the attention of the prolific author to the
ancient proverb "_festina lente_," which is not at variance with his
exclaiming "On! STANLEY (WEYMAN) on!" and these are "the last
words" (for the present on _this_ subject) of the

  BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

       *       *       *       *       *

POSSIBLE DEVELOPMENTS.

    [On hearing that an Archdeacon had withdrawn from the School-Board
    Controversy because he found himself opposed to his Bishop.]

The Archdeacon is "sorry he spoke." Not that he has changed his
opinion--oh dear no! far from that. But the Bishop thinks otherwise, so
the Archdeacon retires as gracefully as may be from the controversy. He
is, he explains, as it were, the Bishop's "oculus"--the man to whom the
Bishop can proudly point, and say "All my eye!" This theory of
subordination of thought to one's superior is highly suggestive. For
instance, who will be surprised to read the following highly authentic
document, now made public for the first time.

_To the Editor of the Once a-Month Review._

DEAR SIR,--With reference to my article "Is Horse-racing Justifiable?" I
desire to make known that while I still strongly adhere to my views
therein expressed as to the wickedness of the turf, I shall, for the
reason I am about to mention, take no further active part in the
controversy. I find that the PRIME MINISTER is the owner of some
racehorses (a fact previously unknown to me), and as I am his "dextera,"
if it is not presumptive to say so, it would clearly be unbecoming on my
part to take up any antagonistic position. However much I may regret
having to take this course, I am sure you will agree with me that it is
the only one which is open to me.

   Yours faithfully, W-LL-AM V-RN-N H-RC-URT.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Last Sunday evening I fully intended going to church. I
put on my most attractive bonnet, and an absolutely bewitching jacket,
when I discovered that JIM (he's my husband, you know) did not intend to
go out. As I had read a little while before the new archidiaconal theory
of obedience, that of course prevented my going out. Clearly as I am
JIM'S "better-half" I couldn't go anywhere that _he_ didn't go. Please,
_Mr. Punch_, was I right? Or can it be that the archdeacon was wrong?

  Yours very perplexed,
  ETHEL DINMERE.

       *       *       *       *       *

A PHALSE NOTE ON GEORGE THE FOURTH.

(_A Brown Study in a Yellow Book._)

[Illustration: _By Mortarthurio Whiskersley._]

Nay, but it is useless to protest. Much bosh and bauble-tit and
pop-limbo has been talked about GEORGE THE PHORTH. THACKERAY denunciated
him in his charming style (we never find THACKERAY searching for the
_mot juste_ as for a wisp of hay in a packet of needles), but inverideed
he was not sufficiently merciful to the last gentleman in Europe. We
must not judge a prince too harshly. How many temptations he had with
all the wits and flutterpates and malaperts gyring and gimbling round
him! GEORGE was a sportsman. He would spend the morning with his valet
(who was a hero to him), assuming gorgeous apparel, and tricking
himself, with brush and pigment, into more charm. He was implected with
a passion for the pleasures of the wardrobe, and had a Royal memory for
old coats. Then he would saunter into WHITE'S for ale and tittle-tattle,
and drive a friend into the country, stopping on the way for _cursory_
visits at the taverns; I mean, swearing if the ale was not good. He had
his troubles. Queen CAROLINE was a mimsy, out-moded woman, a sly serio,
who gadded hither and thither shrieking for the unbecoming. Mrs. PHOX
ensorcelled GEORGE with her beautiful, silly phace, shadowed with
vermeil tinct and trimly pencilled. There was no secernment between her
soul and surface; she was mere, _insouciant_, with a rare dulcedo.

GEORGE collected locks of hair and what not, and what _not_. He gave in
his bright flamboyance a passing renascence to Society. But the
Victorian era came soon, and angels rushed in where fools had not feared
to tread, and hung the land with reps, and drove Artifice phorth, and
set MARTIN TUPPER on a throne of mahogany to rule over them.

In the tangled accrescency of GEORGE'S degringolade--in fact when he was
dyeing--he thought he had led the charge of Waterloo! Tristfully he
would describe the scene, referring to the Duke of WELLINGTON for
corroboration. An unfortunate slip, for it is well known the old soldier
was never there himself.

It is brillig, and from my window at the Métropole, Brighton, I see the
trite lawns and cheeky minarets of the Pavilion. I can see the rooms
crusted with ormolu, the fauns foisted on the ceiling, the ripping
rident goddesses on the walls. Once I phancied I saw a swaying phigure,
and a wine-red phace....

P.S.--I like to phancy the watchful evil phaces of my Criticks as they
read this article. Phair men, but infelix, they will lavish their anger
in epigramme. Not that I care a little tittle about adverse remarks
kicked from a gutter into a garret! But! But let them not outgribe too
soon, but rather dance and be glad, and trip the cockawhoop. For! For,
slithy toves as they are, they will read it with tears and desiderium,
unless I do as did ARTEMUS of shameful memory, and in jolliness and glad
indulgence whisper to them--

 THIS IS A GOAK!

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LAY OF THE VIGILANT.

    I've a natural eye for evil,
      And folly I love to shoot,
    And to prod for a latent weevil
      In the wholesomest-looking root.

    My _ipse dixit_ must always fix it--
      The song, the dance, the cup;
    And my back gets stiffer the more you differ
      From the standard that I set up.

    I went to the "halls" crusading,
      And I found what I meant to find.
    I had said they were all degrading,
      And I never alter my mind.

    In virtue strong I gazed at the throng
      Of smoking chatters and grinners;
    With a righteous frown my soul looked down
      On the publicans and the sinners.

    Loftily, proudly, lonely
      I bore what I had to bear,
    For I knew that I was the only
      Respectable Person there!

    That the others were not respectable
      Was easy and plain to see,
    For they frankly found delectable
      What didn't appeal to me.

    Yet none of the revellers stonily,
      Or scornfully seem'd to stare,
    They took no note of the only
      Respectable Person there.

    My vigilant virtue perchance may hurt you
      By putting constructions worse on
    The pose or picture that draws no strictures
      From the non-respectable person.

    But my earliest vigilance wakèd
      To look askance at the nude,
    As another name for naked,
      And therefore distinctly rude.

    From an icy peak of stupendous cheek
      On an alien world I glare,
    And never feel lonely, although I'm the only
      Respectable Person there!

       *       *       *       *       *

WONDERFUL FEAT OF STRENGTH.--The strong man supporting four men on a
chair is nothing in comparison with _an entire train "held up" by four
men_! This was reported in the _Pall Mall Gazette_ last Saturday as
having occurred to a "Texas Pacific train." The armed robbers went off
with 20,000 dollars. Nice "Pacific" train to travel by!

       *       *       *       *       *

HEIRLOOMS.--_Mr. Punch_ congratulates Mr. and Mrs. BEERBOHM TREE, and
their Olive Branch little Miss TREE, on the valuable _souvenirs_ of
their Balmoral performance presented them by HER MAJESTY, which, from
all others, will distinguish this particular "Family TREE."

       *       *       *       *       *

MORBIDEZZA.

    Morbid fleshliness is mark
      Of the modern (sham) Art-lover.
    Vulgar seems the soaring lark,
      Music (and meat) are in the plover.
    Painters once made pink the flesh
      Of their Titianesque creations;
    Caught in Sham's sepulchral mesh
      Art now raves of _Green_ Carnations!

       *       *       *       *       *

FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

[Illustration]

_At Lugano._--Geographically this seems to be Italy. But people remind
one always of the artificial frontier which makes it Switzerland. What's
that matter? Get up early. Ha! there it is. Cloudless sky! And such a
blue! Ultramarine at a guinea the thimbleful. Hurry down to enjoy its
beauty as long as possible. Fortunate I did so, for by ten o'clock it
has all vanished. Go up a hill. View from top would be fairly clear for
Helvellyn. But for Italy! Amiable and chatty Italian reminds me that I
am not in Italy. Ah, of course not. Will get there as soon as I can.
Meanwhile mope in hotel, for it is now raining steadily. Not a
magnificent mountain downpour, with thunder and lightning, howling of
wind, crashing of elements, alarums and excursions, and that sort of
thing; only a quiet, steady rain, which would be disliked even in
Ambleside. But in Ambleside there would be a fire. Here I sit in a
draughty, chilly corridor, with some melancholy Germans, all of us
wearing overcoats indoors. They remind me that I am not in Italy. Anyone
could see that.

_At Pallanza._--Here on Lago Maggiore there must really be the ROWBOTHAM
effects. My room looks over the lake. "_La vista è bellissima_," says
the waiter in the evening. Hooray! Now to forget the gloom of
Switzerland and England. Wake early. Misty morning. Good sign of fine
weather probably. Into bed again. Wake again. Only half-past seven.
Still misty. Into bed again. Wake once more. Still misty. Evidently
quite early. Hullo! still half-past seven. Watch stopped. Ring. "_Si,
Signore_," says the chambermaid, in the mixed dialect which she has
invented for foreigners, "_il est dieci heures_." Ten! By Jove! With
that fog? She assures me it will clear away, "_se non oggi, domani_."
_Bellissima vista_ looks exactly like Derwentwater in rain. Grey water,
grey sky, grey mountains, wreathed in grey mist. It does not clear
to-day, so it may to-morrow.

Next day even worse. Fog greyer, and rain with it. Mud everywhere.
Notice a practical German tourist with three umbrellas strapped on his
knapsack. Wise man! He knows this climate, and also the advantage of a
change of clothes, or of umbrellas. So useful to have a morning
umbrella, an afternoon umbrella, and a sort of evening-dress umbrella to
bring down to the _table d'hôte_. When tired of gazing at the mist, I
read a three days old _Times_, preserved in the reading-room. Hullo!
what is that sound? A piano-organ! Heavens! To think that I should have
travelled hundreds of miles from London to hear the grinding of an organ
while I read the _Times_ in a fog! Why, in Kensington Gardens I could
have done as much.

 A FIRST IMPRESSIONIST.

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[Transcriber's Note:

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.]