[pg 301]

PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Volume 93

December 31st 1887

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

ANOTHER “BUTLER;” OR, A THORNE IN HIS SIDE.

Taking for granted the improbabilities of Mr. Author Jones’s
plot—which seems to use up again the materials of Aurora Floyd,
and one or two other novels, including
the Danvers Jewels—and a certain
maladroitness of construction, Heart of
Hearts is both interesting and amusing.
All the characters are distinctly outlined
excepting one, and this one,
strange to say, is James Robins, the
hero of the piece, a part apparently
written rather to suit Mr. Thomas
Thorne’s peculiarities, than to exhibit
any marked individuality of character.

James Robins, Lady Clarissa Fitzralf’s
butler,—who is of course the intimate friend of Mr. and Mrs. Merivale’s
butler at Toole’s Theatre round the corner,—has secretly
married his mistress’s sister, and her niece is openly to marry his
mistress’s son. Now, how about the character of James Robins?
Is he honest? Hardly so. Is he sly? Certainly. Is he crafty? It
cannot be denied. Yet the sympathy of the audience is with him.
Why? Well, chiefly because he is played by Mr. Thorne, and
secondarily, because he is very fond of his brother’s child, whom he
has brought up because his brother, having got into trouble and been
compelled to “do his time,” has delivered her into his care. This
nice father returns, comes to see his child, and steals a ruby bracelet,
this ruby being the “heart of hearts.” Whereupon one Miss Latimer,
a malicious schemer, fixes the theft on Lucy Robins. What more
natural, considering the name? The father, Old Robins, has stolen
the jewel; the daughter, Lucy Robins, has been accused of doing so.
Quite a robbin’s family. Of course exculpation and explanation
wind up the play, though I regret to say I was compelled to leave
before hearing how Mr. Authur Jones deals with that old reprobate
Cock Robins, the parent bird, who, in view of the future
happiness of Mary and Ralph, would be about as presentable a
father-in-law to have on the premises as that old “unemployed”
reprobate, Eccles, in Caste. I am sorry he wasn’t somehow disposed
of, having of course previously confessed his guilt to the bilious
detective, March, and expired under the assumed name of Mister
Masters. By the way, Authur Jones is not happy in nomenclature.

The dialogue is good throughout, even when it only indirectly
developes character or helps the action, and so is the acting. Mr.
Thorne as James is admirable; representing the character as a man
gifted with an overpowering appreciation of the humorous side of
every situation,—including his own as a butler,—in which either
accident or design may place him. I do not believe that this was the
author’s intention, but this is the impression made upon me by Mr.
Thorne’s acting, and I am sure it could not be better played. Miss
Kate Rorke is charmingly natural; Mr. Leonard Boyne is unequal,
being better in the last Act than the first. My sensitive ear
having been struck by the mellifluous accents of Lucy and the
Corkasian,—I think, though, it may be Galwaisian,—tones of her
lover, I could not help wondering why the author, after the first few
rehearsals, did not slightly alter the dialect and lay the scene in
Ireland. The play is well worth seeing, and begins at the easy hour
of 8·45. There should be matinées of a new operetta, entitled The
Two Butlers, characters by J. L. Torne and Thomas Thoole.

CORNET AND PIANO.

AT A JUVENILE PARTY.

Cornet. Ready? Yes, I’m ready—but I’m not going to begin
before I’m asked. If they want us to strike up, let ’em come and
ask us, d’ye see?

Piano. Well, but there are all the children sitting about doing
nothing——

C. Let ’em sit! They’ll see you and me sittin’ all the evenin’,
strummin’ and blowin’ like nigger slaves, and a lot they’ll care!
Don’t you make no mistake, young Pianner, there ain’t no sense in
doin’ more than you’re obliged—you’ll get no credit for it, d’ye see?
And don’t keep that programme all to yourself. Ah, one Swedish,
one Sir Roger, and a bloomin’ Cotilliong—they‘ll take two hours
alone! We shan’t work this job off much before one, you see if we do.
(To Hostess.) Commence now? By all means, Madam. Send us a
little refreshment? Thank you, Madam, we shall be exceedingly
obliged to you. (The refreshment arrives.) Here’s stuff to put
liveliness in us, Mate—Leminade!

[Puts jug under piano with intense disgust.

P. Well, I should think you’d lemon enough in you already.

C. I ‘ate kids, there—and that’s the truth of it! It makes me
downright sick to see ’em dressed out, and giving themselves the airs
and graces of grown-ups. (To Small Child.) Yes, my little dear,
it’s a worltz this time. (To Pianist.) Strike up, young P. and O!
(A little later.) I’m blest if I don’t believe you’re enjoying this,
Pianner, settin’ there with that sort of a dreamy grin on your pasty
countinance!

P. And if I am, where’s the harm of it?

C. It’s easy to see you ain’t bin at it long, or you wouldn’t take
that interest in it. Much they thank you for takin’ a interest, these
bloated children of a pampered aristocracy! Why, they don’t mind
you and me more than the drugget under their feet. Even gutter
kids have got manners enough to thank the Italian as plays the
orgin for ’em to dance to. Are we ever thanked? I arsk you.

P. The Italian plays for nothing. We don’t.

C. There you go, redoocin’ everything to coppers. You’re arguin’
beside the question, you are. Ever see a well-dressed kid give a
orgin a penny without there was a monkey a-top of it? I never did.
If you chained a monkey to your pianner now, they might condescend
to look at yer now and then—not unless.

P. Well, you can’t deny they’re a nice-looking set of children
here. Look at that one with the long hair, in the plush—like a little
Princess, she is.

C. And p’raps she ain’t aware of it, either! Why, there’s that
little sister o’ yours, that’s got hair just as long, ah, and ‘ud look as
pretty too, if she’d a little more colour; but you can’t have colour
without capital. It’s ‘igh-feeding does it all, and money wrung
from the working-classes, like you and me.

P. I don’t know what you call yourself. I’m a professional, and
see no shame in it.

C. You can be as purfessional as you please, but you needn’t be
poor-spirited. Come on; pound away! Ain’t you got a uglier worltz
than that?

At Supper.

C. I must say I ‘ardly expected this—after the leminade. But
you’re eatin’ nothin’, young Pianner. (To Servant.) Thank ‘ee,
my pretty dear, you may leave that raised pie where it is; and do
you think you could get us another bottle o’ Sham, now—for my
young friend here? (To Pianist. You needn’t think you’ve made
a conquest with that moony mug of yours. She’s only lookin’ after
you to make me jealous, d’ye see? I know these minxes’ ways,
bless you.)

P. (with lofty bitterness). I’ve no wish to dispute it with you.

C. Ah, you’ve had your eye on the governess all the evening. I
saw you!

P. (blushing). You’re talking folly, Cornet, and what’s more, you
know it.

C. That’s her playin’ upstairs now. I know a governess’s polker—all
tum-tum and no jump to it. Wouldn’t you like to go up and
help her, eh?

P. If I am a wretch doomed to misery, it’s not for you to remind
me of it, Cornet. It’s not a friendly act, I’m blowed if it is!

C. You’re a regular Tant—Tarantulus, you know, that’s what
you are! You’ll be goin’ mad on your music-stool—”I saw her
dancin’ in the ‘All”—that sort o’ thing, hey?

P. (with dignity.) It seems to me you’ve had quite enough of that
Champagne, and we’ve been down half-an-hour.

C. You don’t ‘pear to unnerstand that a Cornet’s very mush
thirstier instrumen’ than a iron-grand out o’ tune—but you’re a
good young feller—I li’ a shentimental young chap. I’m a soft-‘arted
ole fool myshelf!

After Supper.

C. (with emotion.) Loo’ at that now, ain’t that a sight to make
a man o’ you? All these brit ‘appy young faces. I could play for
’em all ni’—blesh their ‘arts! Lor, what a rickety chair I’m on,
and thish bloomin’ brash inshtrumen’s gone and changed ends. Now
then, quicken up, let ’em ‘ave it—you are a shulky young chap!

P. It is not sulks but misery. I swear to you, Cornet, that each
hammer I strike vibrates on my own heart-strings!

C. Then you can be innerpennant of a pianner.

P. I am young—but the young have their sorrows, I suppose. Is
it nothing to have to minister to others’ gaiety with a bitter pang in
one’s own breast?

C. Thash wha’ comes o’shtickin’ to the leminade!

A Little Later.

P. (aghast). I say, what are you about? You mustn’t, you know!

C. (smiling dreamily). It’sh all ri’, dear boy! If a man fines he
can’t breathe in ‘sh bootsh—on’y loshical coursh ‘fore him is to play
in socksh—d’ye see?

At Parting.

The Cornet (to hostess, with benignant tenderness.) Goori’, Madam,
Gobblesh you, I do’ min’ tellin’ you, you’ve made me and the pianner
here, and ah, ‘undreds of young innoshent ‘arts very ‘appy, Madam,
you may ta’ that from me. I hope we’ve given complete satisfaction,
‘m sure we’ve had mosht pleasant shupper—I mean pleashant
evenin’—sho glad we came. And you mushn’t ta’ no notish my
young fren, he’sh been makin’ lil too free with the leminade, d’ye
see? Goo ri!

[Exit gracefully, and is picked up at bottom of
Staircase by the Pianist.

[pg 302]

TOBY’S GREETING.

A NEW YEAR’S CARD.

Library, House of Commons,

Honoured Sir, New Year’s Eve.

I find in the Letter Bag a communication from that eminent
statesman Grandolph. But I think it will keep for a week, and on
this New Year’s Eve I will put in the Bag a letter of my own,
addressed to him who, take him for all in all, (as Bacon wrote)
is the most Eminent Man of the century. No one, a cynic has
said, is a hero to his own valet—meaning, I suppose, that the closer
a man is looked into the less profound his valley appears. It has
been my lot to sit at your feet for close upon half-a-century, perched
upon the pile of volumes which, oddly enough, never grows an
eighth-of-an-inch higher through the revolving years. You have
honoured me with your closest confidence. I have known your inmost
thoughts. I have often seen you, as you are weekly presented to an
admiring public, chuckling with finger to nose and brightened eye
over the inception of a joke, and I have observed you afterwards a
little depressed on reading it in the proof, struck with the conviction
that it was not quite so good as you thought. I am not your valet.
But you are truly my Hero.

It may be said that I am prejudiced by receipt of personal favours.
You took me literally out of the streets to be your daily companion,
and, at friendly though still humble distance, to consort with the
Beauty and Brilliance that throngs your court. But for you I might
years ago have followed the historic precedent, gone mad to serve my
private ends, bit some unwholesome person and died. But you took
me by the paw, lifted me into your company, placed me on the pedestal
of your ever-increasing but never-swelling bulk of volumes, whence
it was an easy matter to step on to the lower level of the floor of the
House of Commons. The prestige of your name was sufficient to
secure for me the suffrages of one of the most important and one of the
most enlightened county constituencies of this still undivided Empire.

As I sit here alone in this dimly-lighted chamber there glide along
with silent footfall an interminable procession of familiar faces and
figures that have passed through this room since I first took the oath
and my seat for Barkshire. Dizzy walks past, looking neither to the
right nor to the left, but conveying to the mind of the onlooker a
curious impression that he sees all round; and here comes kindly
Stafford Northcote and burly Beresford-Hope, and Tom
Collins, with the faded umbrella he used to bring down through
all the summer nights and solemnly commit to the personal charge of
the doorkeeper. And there goes dear Isaac Butt, wringing his hands
because of Major O’Gorman’s revolt, and W. P. Adam, disappointed
after his long fight which ended with victory for his Party and something
like a snub for himself. Here is Newdegate frowning at the
scarlet drapery of a reading lamp; and behind him, Whalley,
wondering whether he was really in earnest when he denounced him
before the House of Commons as “a Jesuit in disguise.” Here, too,
poor Lord Henry Lennox with his trousers turned up, and
Sir Thomas May with a Peerage looming within hand’s reach, and
Captain Gosset steering his shapely legs towards his room to drink
Apollinaris and read up Hansard. All, all are gone, the old familiar
faces, and the New Year, which the bell-ringers are waiting to
welcome in, is nothing to them. Over there in the corner are the
two chairs on which the form of Joseph Gillis reclined on the first
all-night sitting that ever was, when, the thing being fresh to
Members, they were eager to stop up all night, to walk round the
recumbent form, dropping pokers and heavy volumes with innocent
attempt to disturb the slumberer. But Joseph Gillis slept, or
[pg 303]
seemed to sleep. He was giving the Saxon trouble,
and was not greatly inconvenienced himself.

I have taken down from the shelves two volumes among
the most recent and most prized addition to our Library,
and, turning over the leaves, come upon fresh testimony
to my Honoured Sir’s prescience. Turning over John
Leech’s Pictures of Life and Character, garnered from
the Collection of Mr. Punch, I find under date twenty-five
years back, women of all degrees presented under
cover of monstrous hoops. Everybody wore crinoline in
those days. It was the thing, the only possible thing,
and the average human mind could not grasp the idea
of there being any other way of arraying the female form.
But the prophetic eye of one of the most brilliant of
Mr. Punch’s Young Men peered into the future and beheld
what was to come.^[1] In the very midst of delineations
of these everyday monstrosities, fearful in the
drawing-room, grotesquely exaggerated in the kitchen,
John Leech flashed forth a view of the future. There
are three sketches of girls, two in the eelskin dress that
marked the rebound from the hideous tyranny of crinoline,
and the third showing a style of dress that might have
been sketched to-day in Bond Street, not forgetting the
upper rearward segment of the crinoline which survives
at this day to hint what has been. Ex pede Herculem.
It seemed at the date a monstrous idea, a nightmare
fancy, peradventure a joke. But Mr. Punch’s calm eye
pierced the veil of the future, and saw then, as he has
always seen, what was to be.

This, Sir, is only a solitary instance of your prescience
cited in accidentally turning over the collected pages
that seem so familiar and are still so fresh. I could
quote indefinitely as I turn over the leaves. But time
is shorter than usual this evening. There is less than
an hour left of 1877. The procession I spoke of just
now has passed out and closed the doors. Under
brighter and more inspiriting auspices comes another
group. May I present them to my honoured Master?
Eighteen Eighty-Eight this is Mr. Punch of whom
you may have heard. Mr. Punch, this is Eighteen
Eigthy-Eight of whom I expect you will hear a good
deal. And here, happier in his possessions than King
Lear, are his four daughters—Spring, Summer, Autumn,
and Winter. They come to wish you a Happy New
Year in which no one joins so heartily as your humble
friend and servitor,

Toby, M.P.

WHAT OUR ARTIST HAS TO PUT UP WITH.

Friendly Critic. “Humph! A little Woolly in Texture, isn’t it? Of
course I don’t mean the Sheep!“

FROM A COUNTRY COUSIN.

My Dear Mr. Punch,

I thank you for your advice. You were right when you
told me to go and see Mrs. Bernard Beere in As in a Looking
Glass. Indeed, she does hold the mirror up to “nature,”—which is
in this instance what Zola calls la bête humaine,—and in it is
reflected the worn face, so weary of wickedness and so hopeless of
the future, of Lena Despard. The moral of the story—for moral
there is—is never out of date. If we can ever retrace any of our
steps in life, which I doubt, there are at all events some false steps
that never can be retraced. Our deeds become part and parcel of
ourselves, and we can no more rid ourselves of them than we can
jump off our shadows.

And yet la bête humaine, has not quite killed the soul of this adventuress,
for she is still capable of a real love, and of proving its
reality by an awful self-sacrifice. This is not a Christmas spirit, is
it? But you see I went before Christmas, and having done with
tragedy, I am looking forward to pantomimical stuff and nonsense.
I had not read the novel,—you have, but considerately refrained
from telling me the plot,—so I enjoyed the performance without my
memory compelling me to compare it, for better or worse, with the
original story.

I have never seen Mrs. Beere play anything before this, nor have
I seen Sarah Bernhardt, who, as you tell me, was in other pieces
this lady’s model. A London Cousin of mine, who is a theatre-goer, and
knows several of the leading actors and actresses “at home,” tells me
that in this piece the individuality of the actress is completely
merged in the part, and that it is only when she is saying something
very cynical, that he was reminded by a mannerism peculiar to
this actress how bitter this Beere could be on occasion. It is a pity
her name is Beere, because when I asked my cousin (do you know
him—Joseph Miller?) if, off the stage, this lady was really thin
and tall, he replied, “Yes—Mrs. Beere was never stout, and was
never a half-and-half sort of actress.”

And then, when I pressed him for serious answer, he said, “Well,
she’s Lena on the stage, as you see.” What is one to do with a
joker like this, except go with him to a Pantomime, Burlesque, or
Circus? Yours, Little Peterkin.

P.S.—The Opéra Comique is not the Theatre for a tragédienne.
Joe says, “Yes it is—for Mrs. Beere, because of the ‘Op in it.”

“DE DEUX SHOWS, UNE.”

On Thursday night, Mr. Wilson Barrett, brought out a new
piece at the Globe, and in Leicester Square, the Empire Variety
Show was inaugurated. The good-natured “Visible Prince,” who is
always ready to encourage Art in any form, and willing to “open”
anything from a Cathedral to an Oyster, was present at this première
of the New Music Hall. Poor W. B! “How long! How long!”
By the way, it may be necessary to explain to some simple persons,
that The Empire has nothing whatever to do with The Imperial
Institute.

A Christmas Tip.

“Tally ho! Yoicks, over there!” Which being translated,
means go and see the Sporting “Illustrations” at German Reed’s—not
“German” at all, for you must always take this title cum corney
grano, but “So English, you know.” And Corney Grain’s song
afterwards, that marvellous duet between Corney and Piano,—excellent!

There is now an Examination for everything. A man can’t even
become a Bankrupt without passing an examination. Very hard this.

Something to Swallow.—Tom Toper says, “Shakspeare’s
plays were written partly by Shakspeare and partly by Bacon. It
was a ‘split B. & S.'”

The Recent Prize-Fight.—What the French thought of it: an
In-Seine proceeding.

[pg 304]

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

I have just come across something on Modern Wiggism in the
shape of an amusing advertising book on the Wigs supplied to
leading actors by the theatrical perruquier
Fox. “Nothing like leather,”
said the tanner; and judging from the
collection of illustrations and notices,
it is, in Mr. Fox’s opinion, more what
is outside the head than what is in it,
that insures success on the Stage. The
perruquier makes the wig, and the wig
makes the actor. There are portraits
of various theatrical celebrities, including
one or two of Mr. Toole, in
various wigs, whose presentments in
these pages may entitle the work to be called Fox’s Book of Martyrs—willing
martyrs, of course, and many of them after they’ve
strutted and fretted for several hours on the stage, quite ready to
go cheerfully to “The Steak.”

Mr. Frederick Barnard’s Character Sketches from Dickens
have been republished. They are the work of a true artist; but
he should have left Mr. Pickwick alone. Who cares for an artistic
Mr. Pickwick? No; let him ever remain the burlesque eccentricity
invented by Mr. Seymour, and founded on Dickens’s creation.
But Mr. Barnard’s Mrs. Gamp and Bill Sikes are both quite truly
Dickensonian.

Baron de Book Worms.

NUGGETS IN NORTH WALES.

SOCIAL ROMANCE.

A “Fragment,” extracted from the “Dim and Distant Future,” as
imagined by Mr. Frederic Harrison.

It was a delightful summer evening, and East London was looking
its brightest. The eight hours of daily toil were over, and the crowds
of cheery-voiced and happy-faced working people were returning in
merry groups to their respective homes, scattered here and there
amid the splendid Co-operative Palaces that reared their decorated
fronts to meet the last golden glories of the setting sun, and break
the soft progress of the gentle evening breeze laden with the sweet
scents of the myriad flowers blooming freshly amid the verdant
parterres and winding woodland walks by which they were divided
and surrounded. Here a rippling fountain made silvery music in
the air, while yonder the noisy brooklet could be traced cleaving its
headlong way to the lovely Thames flowing seaward tranquilly
beneath, its translucent surface being broken now and again only by
the leap from an occasional seventy-pound salmon revelling for very
joy in the highly hygienic quantity of the pure and crystal water in
which he was existing. Above was the faultless deep-blue glory
of an Italian sky. Beneath rare forest trees, amidst which the graceful
oleander and wild tamarisk flourished with all their native
strength, produced a grateful shade. So sparkling and smokeless
was the pervading atmosphere that merely to inhale it was a physical
pleasure. Sanitary and social science had indeed worked their
wonders here. East London had become to all those who dwelt amid
its fairy labyrinths a veritable earthly Paradise. And as he cast his
shapely but workmanlike frame with an elegant ease on to one of
the hundred comfortable lounges that at intervals fringed its green
swards throughout their entire length and breadth, no one in the full
flush of this glorious summer evening appreciated the fact more
keenly than did Jeremiah Halfinch.

“Ah! this is delicious!” he cried, with enthusiasm; “just a few
moments’ rest here to solve this problem, and then—pour me rendre
chez moi!” He spoke with all the easy grace and perfect ton of a
West-End raconteur, and as he opened his basket of tools and produced
from it a translation of a new work on German Philosophy, in
the pages of which he was speedily engrossed, it was impossible not
to be struck by his general appearance. His frame was that of an
Herculean Apollo, while his head, with its finely-chiselled features
and long tawny moustache, nobly set upon his shoulders, might have
belonged to a Captain in the Guards. There was in his eyes something
of the look of an intelligent Chief Justice, and whenever he
moved it was with all the commanding dignity of a Lord Mayor.
In short, it needed only a glance at Jeremiah Halfinch to set him
down for what he was,—a fair specimen of the average type of the
working-man of the day.

He was not, however, destined to be long in solving his philosophical
problem, a light step on the gravel-path caught his ear.
He looked up. “Ah! Miss Betsy Jane,” he said, rising with a
courtly grace as his eye rested on the trim neatly dressed form of a
girl of nineteen; “so you, too, are enjoying the Elysian fragrance of
this lovely evening?”

The fair girl blushed slightly. She was very lovely. Her golden
hair crowned her beautifully shaped brow in broad deep bands.
Her mouth had that indescribable sweetness that is often met with in
those in whom a marvellously active intelligence is united to a strongly
poetic temperament. Her eyes were like two exquisite saucers of
liquid blue, from whose sapphire depths light and laughter seemed
to sparkle up unbidden with every variation of her mobile and ever
changing countenance. Yet she was only a poor work-girl making her
£2 16s. 6d. a week, under the new scale of prices, by button-holeing.

“I am enjoying the evening, for who would not, Mr. Halfinch?”
she answered, half demurely, with a pretty pout, “but
I have just come from my Hydrostatic Class, and was thinking
of looking in at the Opera on my way home. They are doing
“Tristan und Isolde,” and a little Wagner is such a pleasant close
to the day. Do not you think so?”

“Indeed I do,” he answered eagerly, “and I will accompany you—that
is, if I may,” he added, apologetically.

“If you may!” was the arch reply. In another minute they
were strolling leisurely along, side by side, towards the “Great
Square of Recreation,” that was already scintillating in the distance,
lit up with the electric light as with the full blaze of day. As
they were emerging from the garden-path, they passed a small
child. She was carrying a little stone funereal urn, and she nodded
to them. They stopped for a moment.

“Why, Polly, dear, what have you got there?” asked Betsy
Jane, stooping down to kiss the child.

“Oh! it’s only Great Grandmother,” went on the little speaker,
volubly. “I’m fetching her from the Crematorium. She was only
ashed yesterday, you know, and father says he would like to have
her on the parlour chimney-piece as soon as possible; and so I am
bringing her home.”

“Well, my little woman,” threw out Halfinch, kindly. “Take
care you don’t drop your Great Grandmother, that’s all.”

“Oh no! I can carry her well enough,” was the prompt response;
and little Polly was soon bounding away across the grass merrily,
with her ancestral burthen.

Betsy Jane and Jeremiah Halfinch had presented their passes
at the door of the Opera House, listened to an Act of Wagner’s incomparable
music, and were now once more coming homewards.
Their conversation had had a wide range, touching at one moment on
the Norse Saga, and at another on the Binomial Theorem; now on
the Philosophy of Epictetus, and now on the latest speculations as to
the basis of Nebular Matter. They were deeply interested in their
talk, and it was not till they were suddenly arrested in their progress
that they became aware that their path was stopped by a Policeman
who was kindly stooping over a little child who was crying over
something she had dropped.

“Oh! it is little Polly; and she has let her Great Grandmother
fall!” cried Betsy Jane, much concerned.

“Yes, and I have spilled her; and father will be so cross!” added
the child in tears, pointing to the broken vase and to some white ash
that laid upon the gravel path.

“Never mind, my little woman, we will soon make it all right,”
[pg 305]
answered Halfinch, at the same time taking an evening paper
from his pocket, and carefully collecting the broken fragments of the
vase and its contents, and making them up into a neat parcel.
“There,” he added, “he’ll have to get a new vase. But you
may tell your father I think he’ll find his Grandmother all there.
So wipe your eyes and get home as fast as you can.”

They watched the figure of the receding child.

“You don’t have much work down this way nowadays?” inquired
Halfinch amiably of the Policeman.

“Much work! Why, bless you, Sir, beyond occasionally running
in an Unemployed Sweater, we have none at all.”

“Well, good night, Miss Betsy Jane,” said Halfinch.

“Good night, Mr. Halfinch,” responded the lovely girl.

Then they each turned to their brilliantly-lighted Co-operative
Palace homes. Silence soon fell upon the scene. Another happy
East-End day had come to its luxurious close.

NEW YEAR MEMS.

Lord S-l-sb-ry. Smother Howard Vincent & Co.—at least in
public. Give private tip to Hartington, Bright, and Goschen, to
get me talked about as a “second Cobden.”

Mr. W. E. Gl-dst-ne. Mem.—Feel
a little “chippy” this
morning. Go out axing. Send
New Year’s Card to Dopping.
Forgive and Forget. Write
fewer letters, make fewer
speeches, avoid railway station
oratory; Ch-mb-rl-n’s imitating
me there. Shall have
him next taking to chopping
trees in Prince’s Gardens.
Mem.—Return to use of post-cards;
shall also give up
writing magazine-articles and
devote myself more to commercial
pursuits; there’s a
good deal to be done in chips
if one gives his mind to it.
Why not leave Hawarden and
reside at Chipping Norton?

Mr. B-lf-r. Gingerly manipulate
the “Crimes Act”
across the Channel for the
next few weeks. Mem.—Parliament opens Feb. 9th. Be careful
what I say or write about anybody. Consult Solicitor.

Special.

C. S. P-rn-ll. Change my name and address next year, call
myself B-ckle of the Times.

Mr. Ch-mb-rl-n. Retire from “Fisheries'” as gracefully and as
soon as possible. As J-sse C-ll-ngs would say, “Hook it.” Codling’s
the man.

The Lord Ch-f J-st-ce of Engl-nd. Shall begin New Year by
leaving off voice lozenges, or may be called a “Sucking Ch-f
J-st-ce.” Shouldn’t like this, and I know of one worldly journalist
who wouldn’t hesitate to write it.

The Right Hon. J. G. G-sch-n, M.P. Think I shall go back to
the Liberal Party for a year at least; have tried them all round; find
the last rather worse than others. R-nd-lph says I should by this
time be an authority on the principle of the “Theory of Exchanges.”

Sir W-ll-m H-rc-rt, M.P. Shall begin to get up every morning
at seven during recess, and go out for walk in glades of New Forest
before breakfast. Find it a capital place to think out impromptus
for my speeches.

Monsignor P-rs-co. Mem.—Keep myself to myself, and don’t say
nothing to nobody.

Archbishop Cr-ke. Ask Thos. O’Dw-er of Limerick to dinner.
Cut National League on first opportunity.

Archbishop B-ns-n. Study the Calendar of State Papers, time of
Henry the Eighth, carefully. Get portrait of myself done in full
canonicals, with the two acolytes in scarlet skull-caps and cassocks,
as we appeared at Truro. Pretty subject: great scope for artist.

Bishop of L-nd-n. “Oblige B-ns-n.” Ask St-w-rt H-dl-m to
take me to the Alhambra. Try and get a copy of that now extinct
work, Essays and Reviews.

Lord D-nr-v-n. Must find out what I really mean by “Fair
Trade.” Write to Notes and Queries, and see if I can’t get a
definition somehow.

Mr. O’Br-n. Continue to pose as the “Martyr of Tullamore.”
Meantime, endeavour to get supplied with still more fashionable
clothes. Why not a cheque suit, from America?

Cardinal M-nn-ng. Do something of everything. Mem.—Buy
new Filter.

The L-rd Ch-nc-ll-r. Must really show some reason for my being
in this exalted position. Find comfortable quarters for a few of my
nephews, cousins, and sons-in-law who are still among “the
Unemployed.”

The Right Hon. J-hn Br-ght, M.P. Mem.—J-hn Br-ght, Always
right. Politeness costs nothing. Get someone to give me a short
manual of this almost-lost art, like prize-fighting. The latter being
revived. Practise both.

Mr. C. V-ll-rs St-nf-rd. Inaugurate my Professorship in style.
Get to work, and show ’em I’m the best man to turn out a genuinely
successful first-class English Opera.

Professor H-xl-y. Study Sp-rg-n’s Sermons for jokes and style,
and read some theology, with a view to carrying out the great
object of my life—smashing W. S. L-lly.

Mr. W. S. L-lly. Write more Chapters of History. Devote five
minutes, one day when I have the leisure, to smashing H-xl-y.

Mr. Justice St-ph-n. Read up everything. After doing this, at
last give my attention to the study of law. Mem.—Who was “The
Master of the Sentences?” Must get his work, and revise some of
my own.

Sir F. L-ght-n, P.R.A. Commence getting up Academy Speech
for opening day. Mem.—Read Lemprière’s Classical Dictionary
for subject for big R.A. picture.

Sir J. E. M-ll-s, R.A. Knock off a few pictures for Illustrated
papers of Christmas, 1888. Any model with fair hair will do.
Write to P-rs’ S—p people.

W. P. Fr-th, R.A. Write more Recollections. Note.—Wish
I’d taken to this sort of thing earlier in life.

Mr. L-b-ch-re, M.P. Must get rid of Br-dl-gh; always been
rather a drag on me. Try and hit on some other popular notion as
good as Truth’s Christmas Toys. Keep Eye on “Edmund.”

Mr. Edm-nd Y-t-s. Write more Recollections and Experiences.
Call them Moi-Mêmeries. Keep eye on “Henry.”

Mr. J. L. T-le. Spend all my spare time in arranging jokes for
speeches. Note them down every morning when shaving. Send
an occasional letter to friend Irv-ng.

H. Irv-ng. Refuse title if offered. Tell friend T-le to do the same.

Mr. J. L. S-ll-v-n (Pugilist). Challenge somebody. “Excuse
my glove.”

Mr. J. Sm-th (Pugilist). Challenge S-ll-v-n, and fight him.

Sir A. S-ll-v-n (Composer). Leave Society to the other S-ll-v-n.
Have had enough of it. Get back to my music. Give up G-lb-rt
as soon as possible.

Mr. W. S. G-lb-rt. Hang music. Write something or other
without it. As soon as possible, give up S-ll-v-n. Also dispense
with Gr-ssm-th.

F. L-ckw-d, Q.C., M.P. Renounce Law and Politics. Draw for
Punch. Ask H. F-rn-ss to give me a few lessons.

Right Hon. D-vid R. Pl-nk-t, M.P. Take a walk about London
every morning at least, with view to rivalling Sam Weller in extent,
if not peculiarity, of my knowledge of this “Vast Metrolopus.”

Mrs. B-rn-rd B-re. Look after the acting rights of La Tosca.
Get as good a play (if I can) as As in the Looking-glass, from the
author of the novel. Go to Paris, and see dear Sarah. Find a better
theatre than the Opéra Comique.

Mr. S-ntl-y. Learn “The Vicar of Bray,” and “Father O’Flynn,”
as I have not added many new songs of late years to my répertoire.

Mr. S-ms R-v-s. Keep all my notes for my Autobiography.
What title? Apologia?

M-d-me P-tti. Have “Home, Sweet Home,” translated into foreign
languages, to give it an air of novelty. Leave Wales to the Welshers.

Mr. A-g-st-s H-rr-s. Commence Pantomime for 1888-89. Entertain
everybody. Send Life Pass for the Queen’s Box, to the
Assistant Architect of the Metropolitan Board of Works. Must be
presented at Court this year. Should look well in Court suit.

Dr. R-bs-n R-se. Must invent something new in the diet line for
New Year; shall cut off claret and hot water and their dry toast.
Mem.—To write article in F-rtn-ghtly on “The Here and There of
London Life,” and point out the absolute necessity of consulting me
on every subject. Recommend (as something novel), taking soup
after cheese. This advice ought to increase my practice considerably.

The Rev. Dr. P-rk-r. Shall stay at home; at least, won’t go
again to United States; too vast.

Mr. B-s-nt. Keep my name well before the public. Think New
Novel, All Sorts of Mortiboys, by Sir W-lt-r B-s-nt, Bart., would
have good effect with publishers. Get W-ls-n B-rr-tt to dramatise
with me, of course. Shall ask him not to act in it. Off to Africa, to
get away from “London blacks.”

Mr. N-rm-n L-cky-r. Write Magnum Opus, on the action of
Snowballs in Space.

Sir M-r-ll M-ck-nz-e. Make careful study of the peculiar diseases
incident to “Rumour’s lying throat”—especially in Germany.

Ch-rm-n of M-ddl-s-x M-g-str-t-s. Attend some Metropolitan
Music Hall every night of my life.

Ed-t-r of P. M. G. Get Stead-ier every day.

Mr. Punch. To wish a Happy New Year to everybody generally.

[pg 306]

THE PENNY READING.

(ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD.)

Distinguished Amateur Vocalist (both Serious and Comic). “I can’t say you have a very appreciative Public up here! I
never sang ‘Vilikins and his Dinah‘ better—but Nobody laughed a bit!“

Horrid Boy. “Oh, but they did when you sang ‘The Death of Nelson.’ I saw them!“

THE INFANT PHENOMENON.

UNCOMMON.

Mr. Punch lately learned to his extreme
astonishment and delight that he is one of the
independent Electors of the Ward of Farringdon
Without. He gathered this important
information from the receipt of a highly
illustrated card from one of the numerous
candidates to represent him in that illustrious
body the Court of Common Council, during
the coming year, soliciting the honour of his
vote and interest.

The Candidate in question described at
length his various qualifications for the office
he sought. He kindly informed Mr. Punch
that he was a Citizen, a Loriner—whatever
that mysterious occupation may mean—and a
People’s Caterer, and any doubt that might
have been entertained with regard to the
especial business for, which he catered was at
once removed by the perusal of the last line
of his canvassing card, which, after kindly
informing Mr. Punch that he had no less than
sixteen votes at his disposal, finished with the
remarkable request, “Kindly Plump for your
Little Sausage Maker!”

Naturally wondering why a little Sausage
Maker should be considered as so peculiarly
eligible for the office of Common Councilman,
that every elector should plump for him,
Mr. Punch again examined the mysterious
card, and found on its back a graphic representation
of a race for the “Pork Sausage
Derby,” showing the Candidate, mounted on
a decidedly thoroughbred Pig, coming in an
easy winner with the rest nowhere, amid the
chorus of the surrounding multitude.

Doubting whether a Large Tripe Dresser,
or a Middle-sized Mutton-Pieman, would not
have equal claims upon his Plumper to that
of a Little Sausage Maker, Mr. Punch decided
to take no part in the Election for Common
Councilmen until the real meaning of the
word “Common” is better understood than it
evidently is at present by some aspirants to
the Office in question.

[pg 307]

THE INFANT PHENOMENON.

Little 1888. “WHAT SHALL I PLAY?”

Father Time. “THE ‘MUSIC OF THE FUTURE,’ MY DEAR, OF COURSE”!!!

[pg 308]

[pg 309]

DOLL-CE DOMUM.

One of the prettiest and most seasonable
sights we have seen for a long while was the
display of toys collected by the proprietor
of Truth from the readers of that entertaining
periodical, exhibited in Willis’s Rooms
before distribution amongst the children of
our hospitals and work-houses. The dolls
(there were thousands and thousands of
them) seemed to be bidding the fashionable
world adieu before entering, like so many
Sisters of Mercy, upon a mission of tender
charity to the sick poor. There was a
private view on Sunday, a week before
Christmas Day, and those who examined
the treasures revealing the glories of Regent
Street and the Lowther Arcade, could not
help thinking “Mr. Labouchere must have
a heart as good as his head, and be a very
kind man au fond.” We wonder whether
that confirmed cynic, the proprietor of
Truth, would make the same admission?

The reasons given in the correspondence
published in the Times of last Thursday for
discharging Mr. Highton from his offices in
connection with the Westminster Play seem
to us inadequate. Instead of his work
tending to lower the tone of the performance,
surely its effect would obviously be to
Highton it.

Of course Smith and Kilrain passed their
Boxing-Day together.

“TO PUT IT BROADLY.”

Improvised Butler (to Distinguished Guest). “Will ye take anny more Drink, Sor?“

ROBERT ON THE FRENCH TUNG.

I begins to feel as how the older one gits the more a little bother
seems to worry him. There was a time when I could look bothers in
the face with the same carm look as I lissens
to a gent when he tries to perswade me as
how as that port isn’t ’47 Port, but them
times is gorn I’m afeard, never to return.

My present bother came upon me amost
like a moderate size thunderbolt, and was
summut in this way. The Manager of one
of my best Hotels took me into his privet
room, one day larst week, and had sum
werry sollem tork with me. He was werry
kind, and werry considerate, but he was
also werry furm, and what he said was
summut like this:—

“You see, Robert,” said he, “things is
a changing in Hotels as is amost all other
things, and all things as is jest a leetle
old fashoned and a leetle rusty, as it were,
must be jest pollished up a bit, and made a
little fresher like. Now take our Hotel, for
xample. See what lots of forren gents comes and stays here, and
many on ’em so orful ignorant that they carnt not hardly speak a
word of Inglish! Well, if they arsks one of our Hed Waiters a
plain common question in French, which they all on ’em seems to
know how to tork, they natrally expecs a anser. Now, what French
do you know?”

I confess I was so taken aback at the suddenness of the question,
that I was amost speechless. But I pulled myself together, like a
man and a Hed Waiter, and said, “Not werry much, Sir, but when
I was in Brussels two years ago, witch, I bleeves is sumwheres in
France, I lernt jest a few words from the gassons at the Flarnders
Hotel, witch I have treasured up in fond memory, and may find
usefool sumtimes.” “Oh,” said he, “I didn’t know you had
travelled, so perhaps you will be able to manage.”

I didn’t think it worth while to tell him that I had only been in
Brussells two days, and that it rained all the time, as I was told it
amost always does there, hence so many Brussells Sprouts, but I at
wunce made up my mind to strike up a closer acquaintence with one
of our yung French Waiters to himprove myself in his tung, and
himprove him in ours. And I’m getting on quite wunderfool. Why,
ony yesterday a forren gent said to me, “Encore de Pulley, Gasson!”
to which I at wunce replied, “Be hanged! Mossoo,” and took him
some. I was a good deal emused at his calling me a boy, but my
young French friend told me as it was only their way, and didn’t
mean no offense, so I forguv him. But wot a langwidge! to encore a
biled chicking as if it was a comick song! Of course I sumtimes
makes mistakes, who woodn’t? Last Munday, for instance, a
forrener asked me for some raisins, and of course I took him some
and some armonds with ’em, but he larfed quite artily, and kindly
sed, “I sink as you calls ’em grapes,” but wot ignorance, not to
know one from the other!

I find too, werry much to my discumfort and worry, that I am
xpected to bussel about jest as if I was the mere boy as the French
gents calls me, witch is of coarse so werry different to what I have
for so many years bin akustomed to in the dear, old, quiet, respecktable
City, that I sumtimes wunders whether I shall be able to stand
it for long. Another thing too as I misses terribly, is the hutter
habsence of Toastes. No loyal Toastes, nor no Army and Navy and
Wolluntears, and no blushing Churchman’s helth, nor no Lord
Mayor’s helth, but dreckly as they’ve dun their dinner away they
goes to the Play or some such frivolus emusement, insted of setting
for ours and ours over their wine, and lissening with rapshure to the
long speaches, as full of wit as they is of wisdom, which has made us
what we are, the sollemest, and the most respectablest, and the
most diningoutest peeple in Urope, and the best frends to the pore
hardworking Waiters of any other nation.

What a glorious free-drinking race we must have bin in days gone
by! How one’s respect rises up when one hears of a digneterry of
the Church who lived to the green old age of 80, becoz he always
drunk a bottle of old port every day of his life from his youth upwards.
How artily I wish I coud afford to foller his brillyant
xampel! and so gain the profound admiration of my fellow men, as
he did. Why, to such a man his dinner must have bin to him the
one great object of his life, as it ort to be to every reel Gentleman.
My son William, who is a good calculator, tells me that this trewly
reverend Diwine must have drunk a hole Pipe of Port ewery two
years of his life! What a time of it his rewerend Butler must have
had! Robert.

SWIVELLERIANISM.

From the Police Reports we have discovered that there is a
Society called “The Social Trumps.” What a Swivellerian title!
The dispute which made these trumps Police Court Cards turned
on a question of money, and the Magistrate, Mr. Lushington (could
there have been a more significantly appropriate name for a justice
having to decide a Swivellerian case?) recommended the Social
Trumps to settle their little difficulty amicably among themselves.
We hope the Trumps went and had a jolly blow out together,
enlivened with songs about “The Rosy” and “Glorious Apollo,”
and sentiments to the effect that none of them “might ever want a
friend or a bottle to give him.” The “Social Trumps” must be
enjoying their Christmas festivities. Their Christmas, of course, is
The King of Trumps.

[pg 310]

CHRISTMAS CRIMES.

(Dedicated to the unfortunate Concocters of Sensational Leading Articles.)

“A merry Christmas! And why not a Merry Christmas, we
should like to be informed? Is it not far better to be joyous and
mirthful than to be——” (&c. Supply vigorous epithets here). “A
black-souled tyrant like Cæsar Borgia could, no doubt, spend his
Yule-tide in——” (&c., &c. Invent some revolting anecdote about
Cæsar B.) “Yet even those insufficiently clad progenitors of ours,
the ancient Druids, seem to have understood as though by instinct
the solemn nature of the season which to-day ushers in, and in what
Mr. Freeman——” (or was it Lord Tennyson? Never mind—chance
it!)—”calls the ‘dateless dawn of history,’ they first employed
the mistletoe bough for ritual, and perhaps even for osculatory,
purposes, and habitually gave themselves an extra coat of paint on
the 25th of each recurrent December. And who can blame them?”
(Recollect that interrogatories, addressed to nobody in particular,
add force to a style.) “What though our modern Yule-tide ceremonies
are a mere survival of——” (Here bring in anything you know about
the Roman Saturnalia, say something pretty about holly being
Scandinavian, and that “Waits” were quite common in Athens in
Sophocles’ time, especially on the stage. Then go on triumphantly
and truculently, as if you had proved your point down to the ground)—”What
difference does it make? It is the great holiday of the
Winter——” (This will be a novel idea to most of your readers.)
“For the children, who gather round the cheerful fire, and listen to
the ghost-story invented by some eloquently mendacious uncle,
the season positively sparkles and scintillates with happiness.”

“How exquisitely pleasant it is to hear the childish voices,” &c., &c.
(to any amount).

“Even for the elders, too, there is a mirth and joy about the
Sacred Season, as they calmly retire to their beds just when the
row down-stairs is becoming unbearable, and locking their doors,
look carefully round the room to see that the jug is filled in readiness
for the midnight serenaders of this blissful time.

“When Dickens drew his immortal picture of——” (&c., &c. Here
gush at length about Gabriel Grubb, Tiny Tim, and anybody suitable,
from The Christmas Chimes or Carols), “or when Washington
Irving depicted the more than feudal merry-makings at”——(&c.,
&c. Try to cook up as much about Bracebridge Hall as you
think the public will stand. Perhaps a few practical words at the
end would be advisable, as follows):—

“And after our traditional Yule-tide offerings are over; after the
preposterous claims of the postman and the lamp-lighter have been
liquidated by liquor or satisfied by sixpences; then can we forget
that besides this private bounty we also have a duty to our country?
Lives there the man with soul so dead, Whose heart within him has
not bled, And who, quite promptly has not fled, at mention of that
grandest of Nineteenth Century inspirations, the Jubilee Imperial
Institute? The Imperial Institute is——” (Here mention what it
is. If you don’t quite know, you can count upon none of your
readers being any the wiser. Then add appeals for cash, a few more
Yule-tide common-places, and a general and genial wind-up.)

When a judgment is re-versed, ought not the original to have
been in rhyme?

[pg 311]

INDEX

1. Absurd to a Degree, 13
2. Actor’s Progress (The), 203
3. Adam Slaughterman, 88
4. Addio, Adelina! 286
5. Advice Gratis, 246
6. Albert Hall Concert, 244
7. All in Play, 49, 88, 100, &c.
8. All the Difference, 82, 222
9. “All the Talents,” 300
10. Almost too Good to be True, 251
11. Alteram Partem, 278
12. Amen! 253
13. American China, 146
14. American Chorus, 249
15. Another “Butler;” or, A Thorne in his side, 301
16. Another Chance for Joe and Jesse, 215
17. Arms and the (Police) Man, 17
18. ‘Arry at the Sea-side, 111
19. ‘Arry on Angling, 45
20. ‘Arry on his Critics, 280
21. ‘Arry on Law and Order, 249
22. ‘Arry on Ochre, 169
23. Artist’s Holiday (The), 94
24. At Hawarden, 226
25. At Home with Atoms, 114
26. At the Lyceum, 26
27. At the Naval Review, 30
28. At the Oval, 61
29. Autumn Lay (An), 189
30.  
31. Babes in the Christmas Wood (The), 267
32. Backing Baco, 126
33. Bacon Again, 288
34. Bacon v. Shakspeare, 286
35. Bad News for Tea-Drinkers, 192
36. Ballade of the House (A), 82
37. Ballade of the Timid Bard, 185
38. Ballet (The), 97
39. Bard at Henley (The), 5
40. Barr Drink (A), 137
41. Bartlett’s Baby, 214
42. Battle of the Way (The), 157
43. “Bearing of it lies in the Application” (The), 219
44. Bicyclists of England (The), 145
45. Big Work and Little Hands, 184
46. Bishop and Port, 254
47. Black Affair at Hayti (A), 217
48. Blessings in Disguise, 29
49. Bob Sawyer Redivivus, 179
50. Bogey in Bond Street, 190
51. “Bon Voyage!” 93
52. Bounties to Foreigners, 205
53. Boy and the Bear (The), 142
54. Brigand’s Doom (The), 129
55. Burly Gentleman (A), 232
56. Burning Question (A), 96
57. By a Canterbury Belle, 69
58. By George! 231
59.  
60. Case-o’-my-Banker, 118
61. Chairs to Mend, 190
62. Change, 75
63. Change of Name, 106
64. Channel Talk, 81, 191
65. “Charles our Friend,” 222
66. Chess-shire Cheese (A), 58
67. Chimes (The), 294
68. Christmas Crimes, 310
69. “Christmas is Coming!” 243
70. Circular Note (A), 293
71. Circus Performances, 117
72. Clear as Crystal; or, All about it, 29
73. Cloud of Yachts (A), 193
74. “Cold id by Doze,” 196
75. Complaint of the Cockney Clerk (The), 167
76. Confessor’s Costume (A), 244
77. Conscientious Apparition (The), 298
78. Conventional Politeness, 210
79. Cornet and Piano, 301
80. Correct Card (The), 62
81. Country Cousin’s Vade Mecum (The), 46
82. Court Circular (The), 40
83. Crossing the Bar, 165
84. Cry from the Counting-house (A), 285
85.  
86. Dark Look-out (A), 17
87. Day Out (A), 26
88. Dear Departed (The), 298
89. Derby and Gladstone, 203
90. Despatch with Economy, 38
91. Difficult Navigation, 54
92. Disputed Will (A), 273
93. Doll-ce Domum, 309
94. Down-y Philosopher (A), 261
95. Dramatic Oratorio (A), 269
96. Drury Lane with Pleasure, 113
97. Duke’s Motto (The), 123
98. Dustman and the Barge-Owner (The), 239
99.  
100. ‘Eat of Discussion (The), 145
101. Echoes from St. James’s Palace, 178
102. Elegant Extracts by Eminent Men, 61
103. End of the Jubilee (The), 62
104. End of the Summer (An), 133
105. Epitaph (An), 40
106. Essence of Parliament, 11, 23, 35, &c.
107. Euthanasia, 203
108. Eviction, 74
109. Extra Special, 246
110.  
111. Father of the Man (The), 123
112. Ferdinand and Ariel, 76
113. “Finis Coronat Opus,” 76
114. Fire and Water, 78
115. First in the Field, 112
116. Fishers (The), 219
117. Fistic Crack, Smith (The), 286
118. Fling at Fair Traders, 277
119. Floreat Maschera! 3
120. Fly and the Farmers (The), 106
121. For an Irish Trip, 118
122. Foreign Language Competition, 70
123. Forest Talk, 166
124. Foul is Fair, 40
125. Founded on Fact, 291
126. Four Noble Burglars (The), 216
127. From a Country Cousin, 303
128. From Mr. Henry Irving’s Note-Book, 201
129. Furnishing Fictionists, 292
130. Future Position of the Army (The), 276
131.  
132. Garden, Lane, and Market, 5
133. Garden Talk, 153
134. Gentle Johnny Bull, 208
135. Gentle Shepherd! 173
136. “Gesta Grayorum,” 16
137. Gladstone Bait (The), 230
138. “Glass Falling!” 66
139. Gog and Magog at the Ball, 9
140. Gold and Steel, 158
141. “Good Gun” (A), 90
142. Grandolph’s Teachings, 21
143. Grasp your Thistle, 161
144. Great News for the Impecunious, 141
145. Great Thirst Land (The), 40
146.  
147. Havoc! 61
148. Hazard of A-dye (The), 66
149. Heavy Lightning, 145
150. Henry Mayhew, 53
151. Hibernia to the Queen, 9
152. Hints for the Unemployed, 202
153. Hint to the Howlers (A), 113
154. His First Appearance at the Café des Ambassadeurs, 218
155. Holiday Hints, 105
156. “Homes in the Hills,” 102
157. “Home, Sweet Home!” 12
158. House and Home, 129
159. How Then? 166
160. How to Escape the Fog, 258
161. Humility, 221
162. Hydropathic Art, 278
163. Hygienic, 153
164.  
165. Imperial Institutors, 204
166. Important Summing-Up (An), 255
167. In Convocation, 24
168. Infant Phenomenon (The), 306
169. Ingratitude of Grandolph (The), 227
170. Insurer’s Phrase-Book (The), 77
171. In their Crackers, 297
172. In the Nick of Time, 292
173. Invitation (An), 87
174. Irish Net Profit, 108
175. “Irish Prosecutions,” 183
176.  
177. Jack’s Response, 38
178. Jaw-holding, 220
179. Jenny Lind, 219
180. Jest in Earnest, 63
181. Jills in Office, 4
182. Joe’s Jaunt, 189
183. Jupiter Tonans! 102
184.  
185. Kept In, 250
186. Knight Thoughts, 197
187.  
188. Ladies’ Law, 65
189. Lady Godiva and her Portraits, 14
190. Laissez-Faire, 110
191. Land Measure, 73
192. Lane and Garden, 33
193. Larks and the Roses (The), 261
194. Larks for Legislators, 34
195. Last of the Go-he-cans (The), 221
196. Last (Signal) Man (The), 162
197. Last Visit (but One) to the Academy (The), 9
198. Latest Addition to Fairy Land, 250
199. Latest and Best from Berlin (The), 270
200. Latest from Lord’s (The), 2
201. Latest Street Improvement, 15
202. Lawful (?) Latitude, 84
203. Lay of Lawrence Moor! 292
204. Learned Protest (A), 297
205. Learning the Language, 117
206. Legion of Dishonour (The), 182
207. Lesson for the Day (The), 242
208. Lesson of the Royal Review (The), 28
209. Letter-Bag of Toby, M.P., 173, 184, 196, &c.
210. Lichfield House of Call (A), 180
211. Light from the Wind, 133
212. Lighting the Dublin Beacon, 258
213. Line for Browning (A), 237
214. Literary Find (A), 252
215. Loaded with Presents, 174
216. “Long expected come at Last!” 5
217. Lord Mayor’s Day in Dublin (A), 170
218. Lord Salisbury’s Shakspeare, 273
219. Lords and Ladies, 21
220. Lost Record (The), 130
221.  
222. Magazines in Bulk, 205
223. Making it Easy, 42
224. Manners and Customs of the City of London, 228
225. Marble Arch (The), 73
226. “Margarine,” 34
227. May in November, 242
228. Measure for Measure, 96
229. Medical New Year’s Day (The), 166
230. Messenger of Peace (The), 186
231. “Mi Lor Maire,” 240
232. Mixed Pickles; or, A Very Late Party, 14
233. More Advice Gratis, 130
234. More Jills in Office, 17
235. More Realism, 221
236. More Reminiscences, 232
237. Morning’s Reflections (The), 157
238. Mr. Gladstone on the Fifth of November, 208
239. Mr. Punch’s Manual for Young Reciters, 25, 37, 64, &c.
240. Muse in Manacles (The), 192
241. “My Lawyer,” 26
242. Mysterious Paper (A), 225
243.  
244. Nappy Holiday (A), 228
245. Necessary Explanation (A), 278
246. Negative Results, 238
247. Ne Plus Ulster, 191
248. New, and Bad, “Hatch” (The), 6
249. New North-West Passage (The), 174
250. New Quixote (The), 194
251. New Sixpence (The), 274
252. Newton and the Apple, 18
253. New Version, 231
254. New Wersion of an Old Song (A), 72
255. New Year Mems, 305
256. New Year’s Card (A), 302
257. Not a “Deus ex Machinâ,” 150
258. (Not at all) Bad Homburg, 155
259. (Not so) Bad Homburg, 143
260. Nottingham v. Sunderland, 201
261. Novel Reader’s Vade Mecum (The), 105
262. Nu Dikshonary (The), 165
263. Nuggets in North Wales, 304
264.  
265. O’Brien’s Breeches, 274
266. Obviously, 237
267. Octopus of Romance and Reality (The), 171
268. Official Object Lessons, 22
269. Of the Maske-aline Gender, 28
270. Old Doggerel Adapted, 22
271. Oldest Sketching Club in the World (The), 270
272. “On his Own Hook!” 114
273. On the Stump, in Two Senses, 141
274. On the Wing, 138
275. On the Wrong Scent, 270
276. Open Question, 264
277. Operatic Confusion, 1
278. Our Advertisers, 149, 197, 209
279. Our Booking-Office, 165, 180, 192, &c.
280. Our Christmas Booking-Office, 281
281. Our Debating Club, 245, 268
282. Our Exchange and Mart, 49, 69
283. Our Ignoble Selves, 121
284. Our Theatrical Picture-Posters, 275
285.  
286. Palace of (Advertising) Art (The), 263
287. Papers from Pumphandle Court, 241
288. Parliamentary Ballyhooly (The), 62
289. Parliamentary Notices, 61
290. Paving the Way for him, 22
291. “Paying their Shot,” 147
292. Peccant Member (The), 114
293. Philosopher’s Stone (The), 252
294. Philosophy at the Popping-Crease, 25
295. Piccadilly Players, 293
296. Plea for the Birds (A), 125
297. Pleasant Traveller’s Conversation-Book (The), 73
298. Plentiful Lac (The), 226
299. Pluck of Gggrrandddolllmann’s Camp (The), 285
300. Point of Law (A), 161
301. Poor Old England! 162
302. Powers that be (The), 245
303. Pretty Centenarian (A), 122
304. Pretty Kettle of Fish (A), 154
305. Price of Support (The), 85
306. Private Banker’s Pæan (The), 77
307. Privileged Pistols, 73
308. Pro Bono Publico, 197
309. [pg 312]
310. Professor at the Dinner-Table (The), 287
311. Progressive Programme (A), 193
312. Promenading, 246
313. Protest (A), 186
314.  
315. Queen at Hatfield (The), 26
316. Quite a Little Holiday, 179, 193
317. Quite Chrismassy, 281
318. Quite English, 134
319. “Quite English, you know,” 282
320.  
321. Raleigh too Bad, 6
322. Rapture, 93
323. Rasher Theory of Bacon (A), 278
324. Rather Mixed, 232
325. Real Grievance Office (The), 170
326. Real “Inky Flood” (A), 110
327. Real Sporting Event (A), 118
328. Reasons Why, 246
329. Recent Prize-Fight (The), 303
330. Regular Cell (A), 137
331. “Re-Joyce!” 278
332. Reminiscence of the Naval Review (A), 52
333. Richard Jeffries, 93
334. Rise in Balloons (A), 89
335. Robert at Lillie Bridge, 159
336. Robert at Kilburn, 255
337. Robert at Marlow, 125
338. Robert at the Academy, 13
339. Robert at the American Exhibition, 10
340. Robert at the Guildhall Ball, 33
341. Robert at the Ministerial Bankwet, 81
342. Royalty at the Palace, 4
343. Robert at Spithead, 57
344. Robert on Lord Mayor’s Day, 237
345. Robert on Luxury, 206
346. Robert on Spelling, 183
347. Robert on the French Tung, 309
348. “Room and Verge,” 75
349. Roses in December, 289
350. Row in the Gallery (A), 221
351.  
352. Sailor’s Slip (The), 57
353. Salubrities Abroad, 65, 76, 86, &c.
354. Sardou and Sara, 258
355. Scarcely Worth While, 25
356. Scarletina at Truro, 225
357. Schoolmaster of the Future (The), 234
358. Sea-Dreams, 70
359. Seeing his Way, 39
360. Shakspeare Up Again, 289
361. Shakspearian Question (The), 274
362. Shows Views, 185, 208, 220, &c.
363. Shrimp Cure (The), 240
364. Sidonian Shakspeare, 46
365. Sigh of the Season (The), 106
366. Social Romance, 304
367. Society Sibyls, 279
368. Some More Official Jills, 50
369. Some Notes at Starmouth, 97, 120, 132, &c.
370. Something to Swallow, 303
371. Song by Sir Abel Handy, 24
372. Songs at Stamboul, 21
373. Soothing Song for August (A), 69
374. So Seasonable, you know, 245
375. Sound Opinion (A), 285
376. “Special” Reasons, 243
377. Stable Companion (A), 167
378. Straight Tip (The), 277
379. Strange Adventures of Ascena Lukin-glass, 109
380. Strictly Private, 232
381. Studies from Mr. Punch’s Studio, 41, 204
382. Summer Boating Song, 58
383. Summer Soliloquy (A), 108
384. Suspiria, 229
385. Swivellerianism, 309
386.  
387. Tale of Terror (A), 110
388. Testimonial (A), 18
389. Theatrical Noes to Queries, 168
390. Theatrical Reciprocity, 277
391. Theory and Practice, 233
392. To a Lady Dentist, 195
393. To his Mistress, 249
394. Tom Brown & Co.’s Schooldays, 256
395. Too Clever by Half, 293
396. Too Much of a Good Thing, 3
397. “To Tea-pot Bay and Back,” 121
398. To the Incomplete (Political) Angler, 209
399. To the Modern Men of Gotham, 281
400. To the Unemployed, 245
401. Town Mouse’s Trials (The), 231
402. Toying with Truth, 286
403. Traveller’s Vade Mecum (The), 64
404. Turning to the Left, 169
405. ‘Twill Illume, 243
406. Two Goats (The), 180
407. Two Canons and Bean-Baggers (The), 258
408. Two French Presidents rolled into One, 254
409. Two Voices (The), 198
410. Tympanum (The), 156
411.  
412. Uncommon, 306
413. Unemployed, 298
414.  
415. Venice Unpreserved, 98
416. Verb Sap., 33
417. Very Annoying, 26
418. Very like a Wales, 62
419. Very Pretty Tale by Anderson (A), 124
420. Vicarious Whipping, 159
421. Visit to “The Licensed Vistlers”, 291
422. Virtues of Omission 99
423. Voces Populi, 201, 214, 226, &c.
424.  
425. Wail of Messrs. Burt and Fenwick, 145
426. Wail of the Male (The), 126
427. Wail of the Wire (The), 242
428. Waiting his Orders, 300
429. Wanted, a Theseus, 150
430. Way of the Wind (The), 99
431. Well Protected, 280
432. Welsh for the Welsh, 73
433. What was it? 138
434. Whistling Relief (The), 106
435. Whitman in London, 101
436. Why he Went, 82
437. Woes of the Water Consumer (The), 250
438. Words in Season, 123
439. Worth Cultivating, 290
440. Worth Mentioning, 14
441. Would-be “Literary Gent” (A), 274

LARGE ENGRAVINGS.

1. All the Difference, 223
2. Chimes (The), 295
3. Convention-al Politeness, 211
4. Difficult Navigation, 55
5. “Final Tableau” (The), 127
6. “Fire Fiend” (The), 79
7. “Glass Falling!” 67
8. “Good Gun” (A), 91
9. Grand Old Janus (The), 247
10. Infant Phenomenon (The), 307
11. Jupiter Tonans! 103
12. Justice at Fault, 163
13. Lighting the Dublin Beacon, 259
14. Making it Easy, 43
15. Messenger of Peace (The), 187
16. New “Hatch” (The), 7
17. New North-West Passage (The), 175
18. Newton and the Apple, 19
19. “On his own Hook!” 115
20. On the Wrong Scent, 271
21. “Overlooked!” 139
22. “Quite English, you know,” 283
23. Schoolmaster of the Future (The), 235
24. Spithead, July 23, 1887, 31
25. Two Voices (The), 199
26. Wanted, a Theseus, 151

SMALL ENGRAVINGS.

1. Academy Pictures, 9, 13
2. Alderman’s Reason for drinking Champagne, 226
3. Amateur Vocalist at a Penny Reading (An), 306
4. ‘Arry, ‘Arriet, and the Indians, 18
5. Artist and his Rich Patron (An), 94
6. Artists and School-Board Notice, 46
7. Aunty and the Policeman, 231
8. Babes in the Christmas Wood (The), 266
9. Baby Bottesini (The), 38
10. Baby Gorilla (The), 214
11. Birds on the Telegraph Wires, 155
12. Boatman’s Opinion on a Dress-Improver, 126
13. Bogeyish Pictures, 190
14. Boulanger-Ferry Duel (The), 63
15. Brown’s Boarhound and the Rabbit, 270
16. Brown’s Experience of Squalls, 118
17. Bulgar Boy and the Bear, 142
18. Buying Grouse, 135
19. Cannibal Uncle (A), 70
20. Chamberlain and the Gladstone Bait, 230
21. Children’s Day in the Country (A), 30
22. Chimney-Sweep not in Black, 130
23. Chinaman on Tricycle (A), 50
24. Chorister Boys with the Mumps, 217
25. Churchill at the Battle of the Estimates, 39
26. Clergyman and the Widow (The), 263
27. Colour of the Gorse (The), 111
28. Comte de Paris and his Manifesto, 134
29. Costumes for the Recess, 143
30. Country Ladies and Street Boys, 291
31. Cricket at Lord’s, 12, 28
32. Dachshund’s Sore Throat (A), 278
33. Darwinian Ancestor (A), 265
34. Débutante’s Series of Suppers (A), 222
35. Disadvantage of being an Aristocrat, 110
36. Division Lobbies (The), 11
37. Don Chamberlain Quixote, 194
38. Duke evicting the Volunteers (The), 74
39. Dumb Crambo’s School-Book Review, 37
40. East Countrymen on Disestablishment, 219
41. English and American Yachts, 157
42. Fag-end of the Session (The), 83
43. Family Starting for the Seaside, 90
44. Finding the Law Courts, 129
45. First Meet of the Season (The), 227
46. F.-M. Punch’s Parliamentary Review, 23
47. Footman’s Opinion of the Unemployed, 243
48. German Belle’s English (A), 62
49. Gladstone and Jenny Jones, 290
50. Gladstone’s Sale of Chips, 202
51. Gondolier and the Steam-launch, 98
52. Good-woodcuts, 48
53. Grandpapa, Johnny, and the Irish Stew, 298
54. Grand Parliamentary Cricket-Match, 71
55. Grouse Prospects, 60
56. Guest’s Departure and the little Trees, 210
57. Hampstead Ponds (The), 198
58. Hansom Cab in a Hampstead Pond, 246
59. Honeymoon Riddle (A), 75
60. Host treading on Lady’s Skirt, 213
61. House “Up” at Last (The), 131
62. How We Advertise Now, 262
63. Hungry Professor at a Pic-nic, 186
64. Improvised Butler and Distinguished Guest at Dinner-Table, 309
65. In Lowther Arcadia at Christmas Times, 299
66. Innings of the Two Bills, 2
67. “Instantaneous Photography” in Ireland, 238
68. Irish Waiter and Bow-legged Traveller, 195
69. Jack and Effie on the Sea-shore, 78
70. Japanese and the Lady’s Feet (A), 267
71. John Bull and Miss Columbia, 122
72. John Bull and the Jubilee Gifts, 178
73. King of the Belgians and Ostend Fishery, 154
74. Ladies wilfully mistaking Identity, 42
75. Lady’s Long-lasting Voice (A), 82
76. Laurie growing too rapidly, 159
77. “London Quite Empty!” 167
78. Long Sight or Short Arms? 203
79. Lordly Cecil and his Queen (The), 87
80. Lord Lytton translated into French, 218
81. Madame France’s Next Fashion, 27
82. Making Good Use of the Square, 6
83. Mamma and her Selfish Daughters, 102
84. Matthews and the Police, 207
85. McScrew’s Glasgow Friends, 179
86. Minister’s Retort on Free Kirk Elder, 251
87. Missionary who couldn’t convert the Sultan, 45
88. Miss Tomkyn’s return from the Concert, 66
89. Modern Autolycus (The), 182
90. Money-making Schoolboy (The), 256
91. Mother-in-law’s Return (A), 286
92. Mr. Punch’s Parliamentary Naval Review, 35
93. Nelson as a Special Constable, 243
94. New French President (The), 279
95. Newly-titled Lord and an Old Chum, 225
96. New Shylock (The), 285
97. Nizan of Hyderabad and Britannia, 158
98. Northern Belle and Provincial Masher, 22
99. Not in Love—this Season, 274
100. Octopus of Romance and Reality, 171
101. Old Butler and Her Ladyship’s Music, 234
102. Old Gent and Small Boy on Beach, 137
103. Old Lady and Cabman, 183
104. Old Lady forgets where she Dined, 26
105. Parliamentary Alpine Club, 59
106. Parliamentary Cattle-Show (The), 275
107. Parliamentary Harvest (The), 107
108. Pic-Nic Parties disturbed by Rain, 150
109. Pigheaded Attack on the Immortal Bard, 273
110. Pricing an Artist’s Masterpiece, 3
111. Probable Pictures for Christmas, 250
112. Professional Cricketers, 53
113. Professor’s Opinion on Long Words (The), 255
114. Public School Boy and his Grandfather, 123
115. Punch and the Police Recruit, 191
116. Punch as Apollo, 1
117. Punch at Portsmouth, 54
118. Railway Station Puzzle, 93
119. Record of the Session—Dead Heat, 133
120. Regretting not having eaten more Oysters, 294
121. Returning Home from Seaside, 162
122. Robert and Stingy Old Gent, 81
123. Rough Day at the Sea-side, 138
124. Sacred Music in French, 189
125. Salisbury awaking the Crocodile, 160
126. Science appealing to John Bull, 51
127. Scotch Wife and the Minister’s Tricycle, 166
128. Seeing the Blondin Donkey, 99
129. Set Fair at Whitby, 114
130. Several Boxing Encounters, 287
131. Sharp Boy and Papa’s Sixpence, 209
132. Sir W. V. Harcourt as Falstaff, 254
133. Sketching a Lady Sketcher, 174
134. Snap-shots for the Twelfth, 69
135. Society’s Pugilistic Pet, 282
136. Speaker using the Birch (The), 47
137. Special Constable and Lady Cook, 258
138. Speechifying on Railway Platforms, 215
139. Street Puzzle—in the Strand, 117
140. Sultan’s Appeal to Mr. Punch, 153
141. Teacher of Shorthand (A), 170
142. Times, Salisbury, and National League, 40
143. Toby’s New Year’s Greeting, 302
144. Tradesmen clearing Regent Street, 15
145. Triangular Duel of Operatic Managers, 21
146. Turning on Whiskey and Water, 106
147. Unemployed Man’s Shovel (An), 206
148. University Coach and Volatile Pupil, 34
149. Unwelcome Lady Visitor (An), 86
150. Utilising a Theatrical Poster, 216
151. Watching a Couple on the Balcony, 58
152. Wearing a Real Engagement Ring, 239
153. Whim-buildin’, 17, 29
154. Willow-Pattern Plate (The), 146
155. Wolff and the Sultan, 29
156. Wonderful Sporting Dog (A), 147
157. Woolly Landscape, but not Woolly Sheep (A), 303

LONDON: BRADBURY AGNEW & CO., PRINTERS WHITEFRIARS.

[pg 313]

[pg 314]

LONDON:

BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.

[pg 315]

SCENE—A snug and sequestered if cloudy corner of the Elysian Fields. Present, the Shades of Shakspeare and Bacon, engaged in
reading Mr. Donelly’s egregious lucubrations, not without such mild and mitigated mirth as becomes the locality. To them
enters a small and sprightly Personage, light-footed, but of seeming cis-Stygian solidity.

Bacon
Shakspeare
}
(together). Hillo!

Mr. Punch. That sounds human. Savours rather of my own Fleet Street than of the realms of the other Rhadamanthus.
What cheer, sweet Will? How fare you, Brother Francis?

[Salutes courteously.

Bacon. ‘Twere affectation to ask who you are, Sir. The question, “How gat you here?” may perchance be more
pertinent—and pardonable.

Mr. P. (airily). Oh, I had been for—say, the xth time—to see “Our Mary” in The Winter’s Tale, and being more
inclined for profitable talk than for sleep, I just took you on my way home.

Bacon (smiling). Marry, Mr. Punch, were the statement of sequence equivalent to the explanation of causation, yours
would be a most satisfactory answer.

Shaks. (mildly). Be not too scientifically scrutinising, Brother Bacon. Mr. Punch, Puck and Ariel in one, is free of
all places, lord of all latitudes, penetrator of all spheres, permeator of all elements.

Mr. P. True, sweet Will! How much more catholic, in comprehension, as in charity, is the creative mind than
the merely critical one!

Bacon. Humph! That sounds Sphinxian. Heraclitus the Obscure was pellucid in comparison.

Mr. P. And yet, I warrant you, Master Shakspeare here could play the “Diver of Delos” where your pundit’s
plummet should not find bottom. However, “broad-browed Verulam,” let not that brow’s breadth cloud or corrugate in
vexation at my persiflage. What do you read, Sir?

Shaks. “Words, words, words!”

Mr. P. “I mean the matter that you read.”

Shaks. “Slanders, Sir.” For the coney-catching rogue—one Donelly—says here——but of course you know what
he says.

[The trio laugh Homerically, until the asphodels wag their white heads and convulse their starry corollas in sheer
sympathy.

Bacon. By Democritus, laughter in these latitudes is seldom enough of this sort and compass.

Mr. P. To succeed in shaking the sides—of Bacon, here, is somewhat indeed, the greatest triumph, be sure, that
awaits the incongruous Cryptogrammatist.

Shaks. Would that Ben Jonson were with us to join in the glorious guffaw.

Mr. P. Conceive Rare Ben being jockeyed into accepting you, his contemporary and tavern-companion, as the author
of such “unconsidered trifles” as Hamlet and Lear, Othello and Macbeth, The Tempest and The Midsummer Night’s Dream!
Wer’t ever at the “Mermaid,” Verulam?

Bacon. Verily, Mr. Punch, I should like mightily to have joined in that company, just for once, and to have discussed
[pg 316]
the Cryptogram with the “Spanish great galleon” and the “English man-of-war” (as Fuller puts it), whom Donelly now
desires to knock, as it were, into one curiously composite craft. Did not this same maker of mare’s-nests indite a fantastic
tome, full of bottomless argument and visionary particularity, concerning that fabled island or continent of Atlantis, which
the Egyptian priest told Solon had been swallowed up by an earthquake?

Mr. P. Like enough, my Lord, like enough. Once a mare’s-nester, always a mare’s-nester. Nephelo-Coccygia was
terra firma compared with the elaborate but evanescent Cloud-Cuckoolands of riddle-reading theory-mongers.

Shaks. When Œdipus gets crotchet-ridden the sooner the Sphinx devours him the better.

Mr. P. True, O Swan! Let the Great Brethren of British Genius be brethren still—twins, if you please, but twain.
Verily it might almost pass the might of Mother Nature to round two such splendid orbs into one. Rare Ben had his tribute
for you also, my Verulam. “No man ever spake more neatly, more purely, more weightily, or suffered less emptiness, less
idleness in what he uttered.” Might have been said of Me!

Bacon. Praise shared with you is praise indeed! But the language of the Realm of Phantasy—Will’s own world—the
speech of Arcady, of Arden, of shadowy Elsinore, of Prospero’s enchanted Isle—Will’s native tongue—passeth many a
league-long step beyond the “neatness” of the judgment-seat, or the “fulness” of the Novum Organum Scientiarum.

Mr. P. Well said, Wisdom!

Shaks. (chortling softly). Why, who knows? One day, perchance,—æons hence, of course,—some puzzle-headed
pragmatist may propound the preposterous question, “Who wrote Punch?” From out the fathomless deeps of its many
thousand wit-stored tomes the Donelly of that dim and distant future may readily dip up, in his poor bucket, a Cryptogram,
to show that they were produced by a scientific syndicate, including Faraday and Mill, Huxley and Herbert Spencer,
Darwin and the Duke of Argyll.

[At the mention of the Olympian and autocratic Scottish Sciolist, Homeric laughter
bursts forth anew in yet fuller force.

Bacon. Prithee, sweet Will, don’t! Shadowy sides can ache, I find, and then, what will Rhadamanthus think?

Mr. P. As Jupiter did when the adventurous Ixion intruded into Olympus, perhaps. Well, well, put aside that
preposterous book, which, as you, my Lord Bacon, said of the Aristotelian method, is “only strong for disputations and
contentions, but barren of works for the benefit of the life of man,” and, I may add, of immortals.

Shaks. (yawning). Not all reading, my Francis, makes a full man—save in the sense in which one may be filled
with the East wind. My books were men. Not much that is novel in Nature, human or otherwise, to study in these
shadowy realms. I miss the “Mermaid,” and the mazy world which was my stage. Donelly’s book is dull, however.
Canst furnish us with a substitute, excellent Mr. Punch?

Mr. P. That can I, sweet Will. To that end indeed came I hither. As a popular stage-character—not one of
your own—saith, “I hope I don’t intrude.” Ah, I thought not; but you needn’t try (ineffectually) to wring my hands off,
the pair of you. Behold!!!!!!

As Mr. Punch reluctantly turned his back upon Elysium, he left the two Illustrious Shades, prone side by side and
cheek by jowl upon an asphodel bank, eagerly and diligently perusing his

Ninety-Third Volume!