PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 100.

May 16, 1891.

MR. PUNCH’S PRIZE NOVELS.

No. XVII.—GASPS.

(By OLPH SCHREION, Author of “Screams,” “The
Allegory of an Asian Ranche.“)

[“You will perceive,” writes the Author of the following
story, “that this is allegorical, but it is not by any
means necessary that you should understand it. The chief
charm of allegorical writing is its absolute freedom from
the trammels of convention. You write something large and
vague, with any amount of symbols thrown in. The words flow
quite easily; you cover scores of pages. Then you read it
over again next morning. If you understand it so little as
to think some other fellow must have written it, you may be
quite certain it is an allegory. When you print it, your
public reads into it all kinds of mysterious and morbid
religious emotions, and confused misinterpretations of
life-problems, and everybody tacks on his own special
explanation. That being so, it is quite unnecessary for you
to explain things—which saves a great deal of
trouble. The plan is an excellent one. Try it.—Yours,
allegorically, O.S.”]

CHAPTER I.

TANT’ SANNIE was stewing kraut in the old Dutch
saucepan. The scorching rays of the African sun were beating
down upon BONAPARTE BLENKINS who was doing his best to be
sun-like by beating WALDO. His nose was red and disagreeable.
He was something like HUCKLEBERRY FINN’s Dauphin, an amusing,
callous, cruel rogue, but less resourceful. TANT’ SANNIE
laughed; it was so pleasant to see a German boy beaten black
and blue. But the Hottentot servants merely gaped. It was their
custom.

But in the middle distance Life was playing marbles with the
Unknown. And the Unknown said unto Life, “Give me an
alley-tor.” But Life replied, “Nay, for the commoneys are lying
well, and the thumb of him that aimeth is seasoned unto the
stroke.” And the Unknown beat his sable wings together, and one
black feather flitted far into the breast of the day and fell
to earth. And there came a fair-haired Child plucking flowers
in the desert with brows bent in thought.

And Life said unto the Child, “Play with me.”

And the Unknown said, “Play with me.”

But the Child raised its soft hand slowly and the tender
fingers grew apart, and its thumb was poised in thought upon
its nose, and it spake not at all. And the feather flitted far,
far over the waste, and men came forth and gazed upon it, but
it heeded them not.

Then said Life, “I am strong. Kings have need of me and
earth is my dominion.” But the Unknown gathered up the
scattered marbles, concealing them gently, and answered only
this—”I am a greater than Life.”

And the Child strayed onwards and the feather flitted, and
TANT’ SANNIE still stewed kraut in the old Dutch
saucepan. And BONAPARTE BLENKINS was glad.

CHAPTER II.

Cruelty, cruelty, cruelty—all is cruelty! Boys are
beaten; oxen are stabbed till the blood bursts forth; happy,
industrious, dung-collecting beetles are bitten in two by
careless, happy, beetle-collecting dogs—everything is
wicked and cruel. The Kaffir has beautiful legs, but he will
kick his wife, and TANT’ SANNIE, alas! will not be there to
drop a pickle-tub on his head. And over everything hangs that
inscrutable charm which hovers for ever for the human intellect
over the incomprehensible and shadowy. Omne ignotum pro
mirifico, I might say, but I prefer the longer phrase.

And I stood at the gate of Heaven, I and TANT’ SANNIE; and
we spoke to everybody quite affably; and they all had time to
listen to what we said, and to make suitable replies.

And I said, “Are we all here?”

And she said, “Not all.”

And I said, “The absent are always in the wrong.”

And she said, “I have heard that in French.”

And I said, “Is not that impertinent?”

And she said, “No.”

And a great Light fell across her face, as though a palm had
smitten it, and the name of the palm was Hand, and its fruits
were fingers five.

And again I addressed myself in terms of familiarity to the
Ever-lasting, and I planted a book upon the clouds, where eight
children lay prone with bees flying about their childish
bonnets.

And there came a knock at my door.

“Eight o’clock!” said One. “Arise!”

“Nay,” I answered; “it cannot be.”

“But the water is hot within the can, and the table will be
spread for them that break their fast.”

“So be it. I rise.” And behold it was a dream!

CHAPTER III.

Far away the mother of the little nigger stood churning.
Where is the mother of the little black nigger? She is churning
slowly in the garden. But cannot the aunt of the good gardener
churn herself? No; for she is in the orchard, plucking the
apples, peaches, apricots, pears (Birnen), to give to
the butler’s grandmother.

And there came Life and The Ideal walking hand in hand. And
behind them came Wealth and Vastness singing together. And
Infinity was there, and Health, and Wisdom, and Love. And
Reflection was mounted on a steed with Joy. And many other
shapes followed, delicately arrayed in fine linen. And
helmet-wearing Men in Blue marshalled the procession. And they
spake roughly, saying, “Pass away there, pass away there!”

And I said, “Is this the Lord Mayor’s Show?”

And One said, “No.”

And I said, “Is it the Salvation Army?”

And again One said, “No.”

And I said, “Is it SEQUAH?”

And One said again. “No.”

And I said, “I have guessed enough.”

And One said, “Yes.”

But The Real was not there, and they passed away.

And One said, “I am Wealth,” which was absurd, but No-one
laughed. And they all danced a fandango on the points of their
toes. And a shaft of light lay over them. And they wandered on.
At last they came to a bad, wicked naughty, brimstone place.
And I said to Some-one, “I like this. It seems a good place.”
And still No-one laughed. And Wealth touched me, and I was
glad. And I said, “Give me millions, or buy a box of matches,”
and Law seized me and took me to the Cell. Then I said to the
Beak, “Your Worship.” And the Beak said unto me, “Begging
again. Forty shillings.” And again I woke. And it was all a
striving and a striving and an ending in Nothing.

TO MLLE. JANE MAY.

“NATIVE RACES AND THE LIQUOR TRAFFIC.”—An important
subject strangely omitted at the recent meeting of this Society
was “The Consumption of Champagne on the Derby and Oaks Days.”
The Duke of WESTMINSTER will take the earliest opportunity of
rectifying this error.

A BLEND.

The Wine Merchant (G-SCH-N). “I’M
AFRAID SOME OF OUR OLD CUSTOMERS WON’T LIKE IT AT FIRST;
BUT, WITH A LITTLE PERSUASION, I THINK I CAN GET ‘EM TO
TAKE TO IT KINDLY.”

JOKIM THE CELLARER; OR, THE BLEND.

AIR.—”Simon the Cellarer.”

OPERATIC NOTES.

Monday, May 4.—ZÉLIE DE LUSSAN’s Carmen
is about the best when all the other dear charmers are away,
and in the character she will probably remain in possession of
the field, or, rather, “the Garden,” till the end of the
season. The remainder as before, with DEVOYOD as
Escamillo. But what has become of the “go” in the
Toréador’s great song? Where are the double
encores? Where, indeed, the hearty applause? Surely it
has gone the way of the March in Faust, once so
enthusiastically received and cheered to the echo; and
now—”March off!” It is true that, once let a “tuney tune”
become vulgarised by street-musicians, and organic disease
would be sufficient to kill it were it not tortured and ground
to death by remorseless hands. But the Toréador’s song
and the March have not been the victims of an organised
opposition. Perhaps, though, they may have been, only ’tis so
long ago as not to be within the ken of the present deponent.
Anyhow, the Toréador’s song goes for nothing nowadays,
and yet ’tis as good as ever.

Thursday.—We welcomed The Don. Not the
Academic Don once so popularly represented by Mr. J.L. TOOLE,
but MOZART’s Italianised Spanish Don. À propos of Mr.
TOOLE, it has always been the wonder of his friends, to whom
the quality of his vocal powers is so well known, that he has
never been tempted to renounce the simple histrionic for the
lyric Drama. It is said, and “greatly to his credit,” that, had
it not been for his unwillingness to rob his friend SIMS REEVES
of the laurel-crown he wears as first English Tenor of his age,
he would long ago have set up a most dangerous opposition to
that sweet singer, and have ridden off victoriously with “My
Pretty Jane” seated up behind him, pillion-wise, on the
noble steed known as “The Bay of Biscay O!“

But the above is an entr’acte, shorter than those at
Covent Garden, by the way. M. MAUREL first-rate as the
Don, both in acting and singing, even better in former
than latter; but the dear old serenade, which never can be
vulgarised, in spite of its popularity, was encored, and the
encore was gracefully accepted, Signor BEVIGNANI being in the
chair, and willing to tap the desk and announce, “Gentlemen!
Monsieur MAUREL will oblige again!” Applause.

If all the village maidens could dress in a costume such as
Miss ZÉLIE-ZERLINA wears, then, to take the best and nicest
view of it, that village must be uncommonly prosperous.
Probably tourists’ visits are not few and far between: but
anyhow, even the most unsuspicious bumpkin of a lover, would be
inclined to ask a few questions about this finery. However, her
performance was as fine as the dress, and she looked quite the
ZÉLIE-ZERLINA, so fascinating to the Lord and the Lout.

Saturday.—Roméo et Juliette, that is, M.
JEAN DE RESZKÉ and Mlle. EAMES. A nearly perfect performance.
JEAN a trifle too stout for an ideal Romeo, but of
course he couldn’t go into training for the part at short
notice. The spirit with which he played the part far outweighed
the error of the flesh. Miss EAMES a charming Juliet in
every way, though her singing of the waltz was not of dazzling
firework brilliancy. Brother NED was the Frère Laurent.
Excellent. The name Anglo-Frenchified, suggests a reverend
gentleman who would meddle with legal marriages and perform
private ceremonies without leave or licence from his Ordinary,
and might be known as Brother Law-wrong, an Extra-Ordinary
Friar. The House crammed full with an audience as brilliant as
the performance.

THE ETERNAL FITNESS OF THINGS.

Son of the House. “YOU’RE NOT DANCING, MR.
LAMBERT! DON’T YOU WISH TO?”

Mr. Lambert (who is not so slim as he used to
be). “CERTAINLY—IF YOU CAN FIND ME A CONCAVE
PARTNER!”

THE LAST SONG.

[Mr. SIMS REEVES was announced to sing “Total
Eclipse” at his Farewell Concert on Monday.]

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

Mr. McEwan.

House of Commons, Monday, May 4.—Windbag SEXTON
had fine opportunity to-night; made the most of it. SEYMOUR
KEAY absent through greater part of sitting. Various rumours
current in explanation of the happy accident. Influenza hinted
at; but Grand Young GARDNER, who is familiar with both, says
Grippe much too knowing to link itself with Member for
Elgin and Nairn. Towards Eleven o’Clock, rumour set at rest by
appearance of KEAY. Simple explanation of temporary absence is,
that he has been at home, drawing up a few more Amendments.

In his absence. Windbag had it all to himself. How many
speeches he has made through the dreary sitting am afraid to
reckon up. Members going off to write letters, smoke a cigar,
read evening papers, or dine, leave him on his legs, with one
hand in pocket, and smile of serene satisfaction on face,
prosing on. Coming back, they find him still in same position,
apparently saying same thing. Has lately developed new
oratorical charm. Constantly repeats his sentences, word for
word. Everybody cleared out, even Mr. G., and JOHN MORLEY. Only
Prince ARTHUR left languorous on Treasury Bench.

“Drooping like a lily out of water,” MCEWAN says. Not that
he’s given to tropes of the kind; but, being lately at a
wedding feast smothered in flowers, some of them have got into
his conversation.

Business done.—In Committee on Irish Land Bill,
but no forrader.

W.H. Smith in his new
character as Warden of the Cinque Ports and Constable
of Dover Castle.

Tuesday.—”Do you think I ought to wear spurs,
TOBY?”

It was Old MORALITY who spoke. We were in his room at House;
just torn ourselves away from Committee on Irish Land Bill,
where, at the moment, oddly enough SEXTON chanced to be
speaking. Old MORALITY has been made Lord Warden of the Cinque
Ports, and is trying on his uniform. Rather piratical
arrangement; blue cloth coat with large brass buttons, red sash
round his waist, with holster thrust in it, containing the
horse-pistol with which PITT armed himself when he sat at the
window of Walmer Castle, looking across the Channel,
momentarily expecting to discover BONEY crossing in a
flat-bottomed boat. The trousers are of scarlet, with broad
braid of gold lace on outer seams. Finally there is a truculent
cocked hat, which OLD MORALITY persists in putting on with the
peak astarn. The dress is picturesque, and OLD MORALITY’s
figure lends itself to it with peculiar grace and fitness.

“I fancy WELLINGTON wore spurs,” the Lord Warden
persisted.

Yes, I point out; but PITT didn’t, nor did PALMERSTON.
Anyhow just as well not to begin with spurs. Might in time grow
up to them, as it were.

Wanted the Lord Warden to enter House in his uniform: sadly
in need of sensation. One would certainly be provided if Old
MORALITY were discovered sitting on Treasury Bench in his
present costume.

“No,” he said, “they would think I was going to move or
second the Address. Should like to get used to the clothes a
little before appearing in them in public places.”

So go back to House myself, leaving the Lord Warden marching
up and down, making believe he is on the ramparts at Walmer.
Oddly enough, when I arrive Windbag SEXTON making a speech, the
few Members present talking about Old MORALITY’s promotion. A
dangerous epoch in a man’s life. People apt just then to
discover all kinds of shortcomings, and reasons why the
promotion should have fallen elsewhere. But no one grudges OLD
MORALITY this high and ancient honour; a fresh chapter in the
pleasant story of “Mr. SMITH,” a new “Part of His Life.” For
five years he has sat on the Treasury Bench in succession to
DISRAELI and GLADSTONE; now he will answer for the safety of
the Cinque Ports in succession to PITT and WELLINGTON,
DALHOUSIE and PALMERSTON. Business done.—OLD
MORALITY made Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports.

Thursday.—”TAY PAY also among the Gentlemen of
England!” exclaimed SAGE OF QUEEN ANNE’S GATE, for once almost
moved out of his customary self-possession. It certainly seems
so. Came about on Second Reading of London Tramways Bill;
promoters want to bring tramway over Westminster Bridge, and
along Embankment. DEMOS desires to go about his business on the
tramway, and does not see why he should be arbitrarily stopped
before he has accomplished his journey. Carriage folk say, No;
let DEMOS and his penny tram stop at other side of the water,
leaving the broad thoroughfare of the Embankment for what
RADCLIFFE COOKE called “the gilded chariot.”

Debate gone forward for some time. No one expected to find
TAY PAY in this Galley. Since his return from Ameriky hasn’t
opened his voice in debate; spoken in public only once. That
was to his constituents in Scotland Road, Liverpool; announced
with portentous blast in advance that then and there the
anxious world should learn what side he took in the leadership
controversy. Others had declared themselves, whether for Brer
FOX or Brer RABBIT. The momentous issue of TAY PAY’s decision
required further deliberation. So all the world had to wait
till TAY PAY came home and saw his constituents. Result not
altogether satisfactory. As TIM HEALY put it, “TAY PAY showed
disposition to hunt with Brer FOX and run with Brer RABBIT.” If
in the end Brer FOX won, nothing in TAY PAY’s Scotland Road
speech need prevent him returning to his allegiance. If Brer
FOX remained under a cloud, he could jog along with Brer
RABBIT. Been careful not to spoil the little game by taking
part in debate in House.

Demos.

Now, on this London Tramways Bill, which touches neither
Brer FOX nor Brer RABBIT, TAY PAY interposes. Conservatives
snort impatiently when he rises; cry aloud for division; take
it for granted that TAY PAY will back up DEMOS’s demand for
equal right of way. But TAY PAY has genuine little surprise in
store; is loftily contemptuous of tramways, doncha. If they
cross the bridge and approach the precincts of the West End,
what is to become of carriage-folk? “A noisy and inconvenient
system of locomotion,” said TAY PAY, shuddering with disgust,
as though he heard a coarse voice crying “Fares, please!”

House roared with laughter; RADCLIFFE COOKE talked about
opposition “coming from Members who hoped to ride in gilded
coaches”; CREMER rudely reminded TAY PAY that ten or fifteen
years ago, he would have taken a very different view of the
convenience of tramway cars. This wasn’t pleasant; but when the
Division bell rang, TAY PAY had the satisfaction of walking,
alone amongst his Party, with the Gentlemen of England,
triumphantly vindicating the rights of carriage-folk against
tramway trabs. Long time since House of Commons witnessed a
scene so rich as this in material for reflection. Business
done.—TAY PAY declares against trams.

Friday.—Attendance on House gradually
diminishing; what with influenza, and Irish Land Bill in
Committee, Members gradually thinning off. No M.P. complete
without his influenza. Barks shall not be out of anything if
its humble, but conscientious Member can manage it; so I’ve
“took” the influenza, or the influenza’s “took” me. Don’t
exactly know how it came about. Anyhow, we’re in bed together.
Business done.—Don’t know anything about it.

LEAVES FROM A CANDIDATE’S DIARY.

[CONTINUED.]

Looking for a Seat.

Wednesday, April 30th, “George Hotel,”
Billsbury.—Spent yesterday and the day before in
chambers at the Temple. No work as usual. Think I shall give it
all up, and take entirely to politics. Yesterday afternoon a
Mr. RICHARDSON GROGRAM called on me by appointment. He had
written me a long letter stating that he had important
information to communicate to me with reference to my
candidature at Billsbury, and desired a short interview in
order to lay it before me, Said he was “a Billsbury man born
and bred, and naturally interested in everything that concerned
the welfare of the old place, though for family reasons he had
found it best to make the home of his riper manhood in the
Metropolis.” I smelt a rat, but thought it best to give him an
interview. He is a tall man, with a dark beard, straight dark
hair, a sallow face and shifty eyes, and was dressed rather
like a dissenting clergyman. He was immensely genial in his
manner, said he had read every word of my eloquent speeches,
and thoroughly agreed with all I had said, though he himself
would never have been able to say it half as well. He then
asked me if I had heard of his “History of the Borough of
Billsbury” in four volumes. I asked him who had published it
and when, but he said he had been made the victim of intrigues,
and had not yet secured a publisher, though there was any
amount of money to be made out of the book. Would I like to
read it in MS., and give him my candid opinion of it? Excused
myself on the ground of great pressure of work. He talked like
this for about twenty minutes, and at last came to what he
called the chief purport of his visit. He said he had in the
course of his investigations, been fortunate enough to acquire
important and exclusive knowledge with regard to the early life
of Sir THOMAS CHUBSON and his chief supporters in Billsbury.
“If it is published,” he continued, “it will absolutely blast
the prospects of Radicalism in Billsbury. I am not a grasping
man, but I must consider my family. Still, Sir, such is my
respect and liking for you, that I am willing to place a sealed
packet containing all these stories in your hands on payment of
£150 down.” I told him that wasn’t my way either of fighting a
constituency or of doing business, whereupon he became more
voluble than ever, and I had no end of a job to get rid of the
oily beast. JERRAM tells me to-day that he was once a
solicitor’s clerk in Billsbury, and had to leave on account of
some missing money. Since then he appears to have lived a shady
life, varied by attempts at blackmail. Faugh!

Came down to Billsbury to-day, to attend the inaugural
dinner of the season of the Billsbury Cricket Club. I am a
Vice-President, and so is CHUBSON. The dinner was held in the
large room of the “Blue Posts Hotel.” General BANNATYNE, an old
Indian, who is the President of the Club, was in the chair,
having CHUBSON on his right, and me on his left. Old CHUBSON,
to whom I was introduced, seems not half a bad old fellow, but
he can’t speak a bit. The dinner was awful, everything as tough
as leather, and the Cabinet Pudding more beastly than any
Cabinet Pudding I ever tasted—which is saying a good
deal. CHUBSON proposed, “Prosperity to the Billsbury C.C.”
“Politics,” he said, “are like Cricket. We spend our time in
bowling overs.” At this point a young Conservative, who had
drunk too much, shouted, “Ah, and you mostly change sides,
too”—an allusion to the fact that CHUBSON is believed to
have started in politics as a Tory. Somebody removed the
interrupter, and CHUBSON finished his speech all right, but the
incident must have annoyed him. I proposed “The Town and Trade
of Billsbury,” and started by saying what pleasure it gave
anybody occupied in politics to take a part in a non-political
celebration like this. “My friend, Sir THOMAS CHUBSON,” I said,
“and I have not met before, and I congratulate myself,
therefore, on having been introduced to him to-day. We shall do
our level best to bowl one another out, but I know we shall
play the game according to the rules, and in that spirit of
fair-play for which Englishmen in general, and Billsbury
cricketers in particular, are celebrated.”

This was rather mixed, but it went very well. I think I took
the shine out of CHUBSON. Later on there was a shocking row
between two of the town-councillors, who got to loggerheads
over the question of the Billsbury Waterworks. It was smoothed
over, however, after everybody had shouted “No politics!” for
about ten minutes.

TOLLAND says we must begin to canvas a little soon. Horrible
work, but absolutely necessary.

BOWLS.

(BY A BUFFER.)

“Unfortunately (at bowls) one had to stoop to conquer:
it is that stooping which (except in politics) plays the
deuce with us after fifty.”

James Payn’s Plea for Bowls.

A THEATRICAL PLUNGE; OR, TAKING A HEDDA.

A Powerful Cast.

A plunge indeed! but fortunately the swimmers are strong,
and able to save the suicidal Ibsenites. For my
part,—that is, as one of the audience drawn by
curiosity,—I should say that were it not for the
excellent acting of all concerned in the piece, and especially
of Miss ELIZABETH ROBINS as the Hanwellian heroine, IBSEN’s
Hedda Gabler would scarcely have been allowed a second
night’s existence at the Vaudeville. Miss ROBINS is so much in
earnest—as a true artist should be—that she excites
your curiosity to discover what on earth she is taking all this
trouble about; and thus she compels your attention. That the
result is eminently unsatisfactory is no fault of hers. The
piece itself is stuff and nonsense; poor stuff and “pernicious
nonsense.” It is as if the author had studied the weakest of
the Robertsonian Comedies, and had thought he could do
something like it in a tragic vein.

In the last Act there is a situation reminding us strongly
of one short scene in Caste; there—so delicately
and touchingly treated by its author; here—so
repulsively treated by IBSEN. Let it be reduced to serious
burlesque, and let us have it played by PENLEY as George
Tesman, ARTHUR ROBERTS (with a song) as Judge Brack,
WEEDON GROSSMITH as Ejlbert Lövborg, Miss LOTTIE VENNE
as Mrs. Hedda Tesman, Mrs. JOHN WOOD as Aunt
Juliana, and Miss JESSIE BOND (with song and dance) as
Mrs. Elvsted. It is announced in the bill as “IBSEN’s
Last Play.” There’s a crumb of comfort in this.

QUEER QUERIES.

OATMEAL PORRIDGE.—Would some Scotch housewife kindly
enlighten me as to the proper mode of preparing the above
delicacy? I fancy there must be some mistake about the method I
have hitherto adopted. Is it really necessary to “boil
for forty-eight hours, and then mix with equal quantities of
gin, Guinness’s Stout, Gum Arabic, and Epsom Salts?” I have
followed this recipe (given me by a young friend, who says he
has often been in Scotland) faithfully, but the result is not
wholly satisfactory. I doubt whether genuine porridge should be
of the consistency of a brick-bat, or taste of
hair-oil.—UNDAUNTED.

CLERICAL ÆSTHETICS.

Fair Parishioner. “AND
DO YOU LIKE THE PULPIT, MR. AURIOL?”

The New Curate.
“I DO NOT. ER—IT HIDES TOO MUCH OF THE FIGURE, AND I
LIKE EVERY SHAKE OF THE SURPLICE TO TELL!”

“BLOOD” V. “BULLION.”

A somewhat curious association of names and ideas occurs in
last week’s Sporting and Dramatic, where there is an
illustration of some ceremony taking place which is described
as “The RAINE’s Foundation May Day Celebration.” Odd, that this
particular RAINE should always fall on the First of May.

“BLOOD” VERSUS “BULLION.”

“WELL THEN, IT NOW APPEARS YOU NEED MY HELP:

YOU THAT DID VOID YOUR RHEUM UPON MY BEARD,

AND FOOT ME, AS YOU SPURN A STRANGER CUR

OVER YOUR THRESHOLD; MONEYS IS YOUR
SUIT.

WHAT SHOULD I SAY TO
YOU?”—Merchant of Venice, Act I.,
Sc. 3.

ODE TO COMPENSATION.

(After KIRKE WHITE.)

“That blessed word—’Compensation.'”

THE TRAINER INFORMS HIS LORDSHIP THAT HIS NEW PURCHASE
“WILL TAKE A LOT OF BEATING,”

AND—SO HE DID!

OVERHEARD AT EARL’S COURT.

First Citizen. And what did you see at the German
Exhibition?

Second Citizen. A magnificent collection of German
pictures, many German manufactures, and several German
Bands.

First C. Are these the only attractions?

Second C. No, there is some cleverly painted canvas
representing German scenery in the grounds.

First C. Anything else?

/Second C. I enjoyed the Switchback Railway.

First C. I see—anything else?

Second C. Well, the Scenes in the Circle added to my
enjoyment, but, as an enthusiastic admirer of all that is
German, I do not consider them entirely necessary.

First C. Anything further?

Second C. There are the lights and the company.

First C. But of course these are superfluous?

Second C. From a German point of view—entirely
so. I consider them merely as fringe.

First C. Exactly—and, were they not there, you
would extend as much patronage to the German
Exhibition—you would go there as frequently?

Second C. Yes—in spirit, if not in person.

First C. And if for the German some other foreign
element were substituted?

Second C. No doubt I should be present quite as much
in person, but not in German spirit!

THE PICK OF THE PICTURES. (AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY.)

No. 475. A Day’s Sport in the Olden Times. Ancient
Mariner regrets that guns are not yet invented, wishes he’d
brought a Bow and Arrow with him. J. Waterhouse, A.

No. 138. Tootsy Pootsies. “O dear, what is the matter
with my poor feet!!” Edith Sprague.

No. 518. A Practical Joke. “I shall startle ’em if I go
in suddenly dressed like this.” J.C. Horsley, R.A.

No. 129. “Love in Winter.” By G.H. BOUGHTON, A. But a
poor sort of amusement for this nice young lady to be walking
out all alone with a big muff! eh? Mr. BOUGHTON, eh?

No. 292, Bar-Maids Resting. W.R. STEPHENS.

No. 346. “Moor and Mountain.” By CHARLES STUART. The
name CHARLES STUART suggests “restoration,” but this is a brand
new work. It is mostly mountain, and very little more.

No. 397. “Miss LYDIA LESLIE at her lessons” may be termed a
group of One or Little Daughter and Less Sons. G.D. LESLIE,
R.A.

No. 410. Two horses in a field during a Snowstorm. Good
subject for a Tavern sign-board, entitled, “Two Out.” EDWARD
STOTT.

No. 452. “Mrs. X——,” i.e., a lady with a
good deal of dash. HUGH DE T. GLAZEBROOK.

No. 167. Pott Luck; or, the Arch Archdeacon. W.B.
Richmond, A.

No. 467. “Angela Vanbrugh” playing the Fiddle; or, All
alone with her Beau. EDWIN LONG, R.A.

No. 558. Lady going out for a row. Odd sort of boat: Wherry
Funny. E. BLAIR LEIGHTON.

No. 630. “Iona.” By COLIN HUNTER, A. Buy it, and in
Iona you’ll own a good picture.

No. 664. “La Cigale.” A sporting subject suggestive
of “Got nothing on.” It is not a portrait of La Cigale
at the Lyric. H. RAE.

No. 714. Wind Lads and Wind-Lasses. FRANK DICKSEE, A.

No. 743. “If I had a donkey what wouldn’t go.”. ALFRED W.
STRUTT.

No. 1006. A Little Duck. WILLIAM STRUTT. (Must be seen for
title to be appreciated.)

No. 1106. Hares Apparent. WILLIAM FOSTER.

No. 1108. Napoleon leaving the room where Josephine is
fainting on the floor. Short title, “Going Nap.” LASLETT J.
POTT.

THE ABC OF IBSENITY.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

The Diary of a Pilgrimage occupies 175 pages of one
of ARROWSMITH’s three-and-sixpenny books, and no doubt the
admirers of its author, Mr. JEROME K. JEROME, may possibly not
grudge this amount when gauging its value by its attractive
cover. It is “‘ARRY Abroad,” that’s all. ‘ARRY Abroad laughs
and talks loudly in foreign churches, sneers and jeers at
everything he does not understand—and this includes the
greater portion of all he sees and hears—chaffs puzzled
officials, and everywhere makes himself highly and
exceptionally popular. In this Diary ‘ARRY is
occasionally rather amusing when he is endeavouring to be
either serious or sentimental, or both. ‘ARRY serious or ‘ARRY
sentimental, or ‘ARRY sentimentally serious and expecting to be
taken at his own valuation, is of course delightful, only a
little of it goes a great way, and this Cockney pilgrim goes
too far, especially when giving us his valuable opinion on the
Passion Play. ‘ARRY on the Passion Play, and the character of
JUDAS ISCARIOT! As Hedda Gabler’s husband observes on
every possible opportunity—”Fancy that!” Only once
the Baron finds himself in agreement with the travelling ‘ARRY,
and this happens when he says, “I must candidly confess that
the English-speaking people one meets with on the Continent
are, taken as a whole, a most disagreeable contingent.” Yes,
certainly, when they are all ‘Arries. Set an ‘ARRY to catch an
‘ARRY, and of course to the regular right-down ‘ARRY all other
‘ARRIES, not ‘appnin’ to ‘ave the honour of being ‘is
own partics, are detestably vulgar cads. The remainder
of the book, i.e., 131 pages, is padded with essays, a
fact not mentioned on the outside of the work, which, like
charity, covers a multitude of sins. Whether this is quite a
fair way of stating contents, is a question which the Baron
supposes both Publishers and Author have thoroughly
considered.

Don’t skip ELLEN TERRY’s Memoirs in The New Review.
Nothing much in them, but delightfully chatty and amusing. See
Murray’s Magazine for Mr. GLADSTONE on the Murray
Memoirs, in the number for the “Murray Month of May.” When
you are routing about for something short and amusing, take up
the Cornhill, and read A Flash in the Pan. I have
commenced, says the Baron, my friend GEORGE MEREDITH’s One
of the Conquerors. Now G.M. is an author whose work does
not admit of the healthy and graceful exercise of skipping.
Here the skipper’s occupation is gone. G.M.’s work should be
taken away by the reader far from the madding crowd and perused
and pondered over. If Ponder’s End is a tranquil place as the
name implies, then to that secluded spot betake yourself with
your GEORGE MEREDITH, O happy and studious reader, and ponder
in peace.

Since the time of Richard Feverel, which I shall
always consider his best, “of the very best” as ZERO of the
Monte Carlo Bar has it, G.M. has developed into a gold-beater
of epigrams. What once served him as a two-line epigram, is now
spread out over a couple of pages. Two volumes instead of three
would serve his turn far better, or rather the public’s turn,
for his own is a very peculiar one. But to my task, says the
Baron, give me a slight refresher and a suck at the lemon as it
were, or a sip of the lemonade, and at him again. Festina
lente. More anon from

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

ROBERT ON ENGLISH AND FOREIGN WAITERS.

Well, things is cumming to a pretty pass, things is, when
I’m acshally told that, as it used to be said formerly, “No
Hirish need apply for nothing,” so now, we are told, that no
English Waiters need apply at the Royal Nawal Xhibishun unless
he bes a German!

“Rule, Britannia, Britannia rules the Waves! For
Britons never, never, NEVER Shall be Slaves!”

Robert
the Waiter. “WHAT’S THIS! ‘NO ENGLISH NEED APPLY!
GERMANS ONLY TAKEN’! THIS IS ‘BRITONS NEVER SHALL BE
SLAVES’ WITH A WENGEANCE!”

I never knowed as Jack Tars, and Powder-Munkys, and Admerals
(as is so fond of Port, that they takes the werry name), was so
werry parshal to Germans, that they woud sooner go without
their dinners and tease, than be waited on by any other
gennelmen, most suttenly not. “O contrare,” as the
French Waiters says. It ‘ud be a jolly long time, I shood
think, before your real British Sailers wood learn to call a
Waiter a Gasson, tho’ as it means, I’m told, a Boy,
there is sum little sense in it, coz there’s, in course. Old
Boys as well as yung ones; but what on airth meaning is there
in a Kelner! as I’m acshally told all German Waiters insists on
being called! Why the thing’s too absurd to tork about.

Besides the British Publick is used to our little ways, as
we are quite used to theirn, and they talk to us in that nice
confidenshal tone about the different wines, et setterer, as no
true Born Englishman ewer yet spoke to a Frenchman, much less a
German. No, no, the hole thing’s a mistake, as will soon be
found out. And what a groce injustice to the native article.
These sollem-looking Germans, not content with pushing our poor
sons from their stools in our counting-houses, as
Macbeth says, must now cum and take the werry bread out
of their poor Father’s mouths. Oh pale-faced shame, where’s
your blush? And think too of their himperance. Why they are
acshilly a going for to have a hexibition of their own, here in
Lundon, and does anyone think as they’ll write up on the gates,
“Only English Waiters need apply?” Why the hidear is ridiclous,
but where’s the difference I should like to kno. No, no, no one
can kno better than I do, from a long and waried xperience,
from the Grand old City, the ome of ospitality and turtle soup,
to the “Grand” and “Metropole,” the omes of lucksury and
refinement, that the British Public likes his British Waiter,
he likes his nice respecful ways, the helligent Bow with which
he ands him his At, and the graceful hair with which he
receeves his little doosure.

ROBERT.

SPECIMENS FROM MR. PUNCH’S SCAMP-ALBUM.

No. IV.—THE HUSBAND’S OLD SCHOOL-FELLOW.

We will suppose that you are a young wife, and that your
husband is absent in the City during the greater part of the
day. One afternoon a card is brought in bearing the
inscription:—

Which document is followed closely by a tall, well-groomed,
rather portly and florid stranger, with a military moustache,
who greets you with the utmost cordiality. “I happened to find
myself in this neighbourhood,” he says, “and I could
not—I really could not—resist this
opportunity. My name, I venture to think, is a sufficient
introduction?”

It is nothing of the sort—but you are too shy and too
polite to admit it, so you merely murmur some incoherency. He
detects you at once. “Ah!” he cries, in good-tempered reproach;
“I see, I’ve been too sanguine. Now confess, my dear lady, you
haven’t a notion who I am!”

Thus brought to bay, you own that you have no clue to your
visitor’s identity—as yet. “Well—well,” he says,
tolerantly, “Time is a terrible sponge—though I had hoped
that, even after all these years, your dear husband might have
occasionally mentioned the name of his old school-chum! I’ve
never forgotten him—no, all through the years I’ve
been in India I’ve never forgotten dear old WALTER!”

“But my husband’s name is WILLIAM!” you say here.

“He was always WALTER to me, Madam, or
rather—WATTY. He was so like a favourite young brother of
mine, who died young. That drew us together from the first. Did
dear old WATTY never tell you how he saved my life once?… No?
So like him!—he wouldn’t. But he did, though; yes, by
Gad, jumped into fifteen foot of water after me, and kept me up
when I was going under for the last time. Pardon me, but I see
a photograph upon your writing-table—surely, unless I am
wrong, that—”

“That is a portrait of my only brother,” you will say; “he
is out in India with his regiment—perhaps you may have
met him there?”

“Thought I knew the face—met him at Simla, several
times,” says the Captain; “wonderful how small the world is!
But have you one of old WATTY’s photos? I should so like to see
whether the dear old chap has altered … Ah, I should hardly
have known him—and yet, yes, the same cheery, jolly look,
I can trace the boy there, I can see my old WATTY again! No
friends, my dear Mrs. GOSLING, like those we make in early
youth! And he never mentions me now? Ah! well, he has a very
charming excuse for forgetting the past—though I shall
tell him when I see him that I do think he might have
remembered his old school-friend a little better than he seems
to have done. Your servant informed me that he was seldom at
home quite so early as this, but I thought if I could not see
him, I would at least give myself the pleasure of making
the acquaintance of his wife, so I just ventured to come in for
five minutes.”

“WILLIAM will be so disappointed to have missed you,” you
say, eagerly; “can’t you wait and let me give you some tea? He
may be back in half an hour.”

“In half an hour? Well, ‘pon my word, you tempt me very
much. I shouldn’t like to go away without seeing him, but I
must send away my cab first—no, it’s not outside, left it
at the corner of the road, as I wasn’t certain of the
number—I s’pose I’ve got enough silver to—no, I
haven’t, by Jove! Could you oblige me by change for
a—well, really, this is very awkward. I’ve positively
come out with only a shilling—thought it was a sovereign!
I shall have to ask dear old WATTY to accommodate me—I’ve
lent him many a half-crown in the old days. Absurd
predicament to be in, and if I keep my cabman waiting, I don’t
know what he mayn’t charge me. I took him three hours ago. I
tell you what, my dear Mrs. GOSLING; If you’ll advance me a
sovereign, I could run out and settle with the fellow, and then
it won’t signify how long I wait for WATTY. Can
you? Too good of you, I’m sure! WATTY will chaff me when he
hears I’ve been borrowing like this, ha, ha!” Here your ear,
sharpened by affection, catches a well-known turn of the
latch-key at your front-door. “Why, how fortunate!” you
exclaim, “here is my husband already, Captain CAULKER.
He will come in as soon as he has changed his shoes.”

“Capital!” cries the Captain. “Look here, Mrs.
GOSLING,—I’ve just thought of a little joke. I want to
see if he’ll know me. Now you go and talk to him a
little, and—presently, you know—say there’s a man
in the drawing-room, who’s come to wind the clocks, and then
I’ll come in to where you are, and make believe to wind the
clock there—do you see? I’d bet anything he won’t spot me
at first!”

You are young enough to be delighted at the idea of such a
pretty little comedy, and you trip away to the study, and
archly keep dear WILLIAM in conversation until the Captain is
ready to make his appearance. At last, a little impatiently,
you give the cue by mentioning that there is a clock-winder in
the drawing-room. WILLIAM is amusingly suspicious, and insists
on seeing the man. As the scene will be just as funny in the
drawing-room, you accompany him thither—but there is no
gallant Captain there affecting to wind your charming little
Sèvres clock (a wedding present)—he has gone,
and—alas! without leaving a timepiece for anybody else to
wind. And WILLIAM is most disagreeable and unpleasant
about it!

NOTES FROM A NURSERY-GARDEN.

(By an Awfully Clever Child.)

DEAR MR. PUNCH,—I am a Poetess. I am told that the Age
is old, and that Poetry is over. My age is ten, and my
poetry is certainly not over. My nurse (one of those horrid
critics) has ventured to suggest that I am not original. I
leave you to judge. Yours impatiently, ENFANT TERRIBLE.

N.W.

TO A SCENTY PEDE.

ON A JAPANESE SCREEN.

MISS MUFFET.

ON A KLEPTOMANIAC.

TO THE QUEEN OF MAYS.

CONSERVATIVE COMMENT ON A RECENT ELECTION (after Mr.
Middlewick).—”Humph! Inferior Dosset!”

NOTICE.—Rejected Communications or Contributions,
whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any
description, will in no case be returned, not even when
accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or
Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.