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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 93, November 26, 1887

Author: Various

Editor: F. C. Burnand

Release date: September 2, 2012 [eBook #40645]

Language: English

Credits: E-text prepared by Wayne Hammond, Malcolm Farmer, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOL. 93.

November 26, 1887.




PAPERS FROM PUMP-HANDLE COURT.

_A Recollection of the Long Vacation._


[Illustration]

During the Long Vacation (now happily over) I have been present at my
chambers a great deal more frequently than some of the men with whom I
share my rooms. In fact, I may say that I have been constantly the sole
occupant of the entire set. CHUCKBOB, the well-known authority on
International Law, has spent September and October in the Highlands, and
my other friends have been on the Continent. Even PORTINGTON, my
excellent and admirable clerk, has taken a fortnight's rest at
Eastend-on-Mud (a pleasant watering-place not many miles from Town),
where I fancy he spent his well-earned holiday in trying to get up a
libel action against the Sanitary Board. It is just to say that my
presence at Pump-Handle Court has not been entirely necessitated by my
forensic labours. The fact is, that JOWLER, a very dear friend of mine,
who has some mysterious supervisorship (sanctioned by an eccentric will)
over an Institution connected with the Vegetarian Movement, was recently
called away, by his duties as a trustee, to Australia, to look after a
number of sheep somehow affected and inconvenienced by the increase of
rabbits in that favourite colony. Being thus for a season expatriated,
he asked me to look after the Institution connected with the Vegetarian
Movement, in his place during his absence.

"You will really find the work simple enough," he said on bidding me
farewell. "You hold my power of attorney, and all you have to do is not
to quarrel with the Committee of Inspection, who, as you know, can play
the very dickens with us."

"But what have the Committee of Inspection to do with the place?" I
asked rather anxiously, as I never like to accept responsibility, so to
speak, with my eyes blindfolded.

"Oh, you will soon find out," replied JOWLER. "You will pick it up as
you go along. I shall soon be back--perhaps in six months."

The Institution connected with the Vegetarian Movement was within easy
distance of my chambers, so I came to the conclusion that I could
combine the vague superintendence it apparently required with my
ordinary legal engagements. I found, on a visit to the Institution about
a fortnight after JOWLER had left, that all seemed to be right, and the
head _employé_ assured me that if my services were needed, he would send
round to me.

"Fortunately since Mr. JOWLER'S departure, Sir," said the head
_employé_, "we have seen nothing of the Committee of Inspection."

He lowered his voice to a tone of the deepest awe as he spoke of the
mysterious body.

"I am very glad to have seen you, Sir," he continued; "the fact is,
there may be a number of things I should like to consult you about, and
I was loth to worry you."

"Oh, not in the least," I replied, airily; "consult me at any time; only
too glad to give you every assistance in my power."

Upon this, I took my leave, saying as I did, to show that I really knew
what I was about, that whoever had broken the hall-lamp, which I noticed
was damaged, should have been made to pay for it.

On my return to my chambers, I found PORTINGTON in a great state of
excitement. He had actually got a brief for me! A real brief marked with
a real fee and endorsed by a real firm of Solicitors! I was actually
retained! MORDAUNT JONES, BROWN AND SNOBKINS! Perhaps the best firm in
the profession! I was delighted!

"PORTINGTON," I observed when I had regained sufficient control over my
feelings to speak calmly, "I do not think you will find the names in my
fee-book?"

"I fancy not, Sir," replied PORTINGTON; "they wanted Mr. CHUCKBOB, only
I said he was in Scotland, and persuaded--I mean told them you were in,
and would be glad to look through the papers instead."

"Thank you, PORTINGTON," I answered, as I took the bundle into my own
special room; "thank you, if they come for them, let me know."

"Certainly, Sir; MORDAUNT JONES, BROWN AND SNOBKINS seemed most anxious
to have them back."

Once alone I undid the tape and found the matter resolved itself into a
most delicate point of international usage. I went to my bookshelf and
hunted for authorities, and was soon deep in Mexican Maritime Law. I was
searching in its statutes for one dealing with a ship detained by stress
of weather in quarantine, when I was disturbed by PORTINGTON ushering in
the head _employé_ from the Institution connected with the Vegetarian
Movement.

"Very sorry, Sir," said my visitor, "but we are in sad distress. We have
just received twelve dozen cases of ginger-beer, when the Committee of
Inspection particularly ordered that only soda-water should be supplied,
and I really don't know what we shall do."

"Can they not be exchanged for the required liquid?" I asked, looking up
from my work, a trifle annoyed at the interruption.

"I am afraid that is impossible, Sir. You see that the Committee of
Inspection are so opposed to any alteration of procedure."

"Well, well, you must do the best you can," I replied. "You see I am
very much engaged at this moment."

The chief _employé_, seeming greatly surprised at my lack of excitement,
bowed, and withdrew. I was once more deep in my Mexican Maritime Law,
when PORTINGTON put in his head.

"Suppose that opinion isn't ready yet, Sir? MORDAUNT, BROWN, JONES AND
SNOBKINS are waiting for it."

"Ready directly. My compliments, and they can call for it in half an
hour."

I had just got to the point where I thought I began to comprehend the
Mexican method of dealing with a fraudulent bill of lading, when I was
again interrupted. A small boy forced himself in.

"Please you are to come round at once. The chess-boards are out of
order, and want mending, and there is something wrong with the lift,
between the kitchen and the dining-room, and----"

"You had no right to intrude, sirrah!" I exclaimed, with haughty
impatience. "Begone!"

Murmuring something about the Committee of Inspection, "kicking up a
shindy" the urchin withdrew. Again I dived into Mexican Maritime Law,
and nearly got hold of the rules governing a sale of cargo for the
benefit of ship-repairs. I had jotted down a line or two upon the
brief-paper before me, when the door was again thrown open, and a
gentleman of immense presence entered.

"I believe you are Mr. JOWLER'S substitute?" he began, without removing
his hat. I inclined my head and made a gesture with my pen which was
intended to convey to him the joint ideas that he was to take a chair
and not to disturb me until I was less preoccupied. He ignored my
dumb-show. "And that being the case, it is my duty to call your
attention to the unsatisfactory condition of the chimney-pots of your
Institution, and to mention the fact that a pane of glass in the pantry
has been broken, and is still unrepaired."

"Really," I replied, "I am exceedingly busy with a matter of the
greatest importance, and I must ask you to be so very kind as to call
again on an occasion when my time is more my own."

The gentleman rose with an air of astonishment so profound that it
nearly approached an aspect of absolute terror. He gasped for a moment,
and then asked, in a bone-freezing whisper--

"Do you understand that I am a Member of the Committee of Inspection?"

"I shall be delighted to make your acquaintance on some future
occasion," I replied, with that easy courtesy that I hope is one of my
characteristics, and I opened the door for him to pass out.

He got up and with the same expression of profound astonishment left my
chambers. Once more I dived into Mexican Maritime Law, and was only
disturbed by a letter sent by hand from the Institution, which I did not
open, but threw carelessly on the desk before me. I had just got to the
last point in my opinion when the door was again dashed open and JOWLER
himself rushed in.

"Why, my dear fellow,----" I began.

"No time to explain," he cried, "Australian visit deferred. Presentiment
of evil. Came back. What about the Institution?"

I gave an account of my stewardship.

"And this is a letter I got a few minutes ago," I said, when I had
finished my story, handing the document to my friend who hurriedly
opened it.

"Good gracious!" he exclaimed, "why it is from a Member of the Committee
of Inspection complaining of the hall-lamp! Oh! what _have_ you been
doing?"

"They are all there, Sir!" cried the urchin, returning at the moment out
of breath from running, "and there's a nice row at the Institution!"

"What the Committee of Inspection!" exclaimed JOWLER, seizing his hat,
"Oh, what _have_ you been doing? Why the place will be ruined!" And he
hurried off followed by the urchin.

The next morning I got a letter from JOWLER, saying that he would never
forgive me, as, by my "want of tact with the Committee of Inspection, I
had ruined a widow and five small children," and, to make matters worse,
I have been subsequently informed, in a satirical communication signed
"MORDAUNT BROWN, JONES AND SNOBKINS," that my opinion is not one they
can conscientiously adopt without further advice, "as my knowledge of
Mexican Law seems to be of a superficial description."

It is a painful experience, and none the less painful because I have to
add it to a number of experiences of a not entirely dissimilar
character.

                                              A. BRIEFLESS, JUNIOR.

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE GRAND OLD MAN" IN DECEMBER.--Father Christmas.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

THE LETTER-BAG OF TOBY M.P.

FROM QUIET QUARTERS.

_By-the-Sea, Saturday._]

DEAR TOBY,

I have been intending to write to you for some weeks past, but, really,
life passes so quickly here, with such gentle rotation of days and
nights, that a week is over before I realise that I have well entered
upon it. Besides, I find, in practical experience, that the writing of a
letter usually involves the receipt of one; and, though I am not bound
by any rule involving the necessity of reading, or even opening the
letters that reach me, it is as well to avoid, as far as possible,
little annoyances of that kind. I write to you because, in your case, I
make an exception to the rule of my epistolary conduct, and really want
to hear from you.

The occasion of this solicitude is, that I find chance references in the
local weekly paper (I never see a daily) to the Irish Question, which
seem to show that it is in a somewhat unusually perturbed state. I
daresay if I could make up my mind to open the pile of letters that have
been accumulating on my desk for the last month or so, I should be able
to inform myself on the subject? But, if I once began that practice,
whither would it lead me? I have found, in the course of my public life,
that the last thing to do with a letter received through the post, is to
open it. My correspondence, conducted in the main upon that principle,
answers itself, and thus much labour, and possible friction, are saved.

From the source of intelligence already alluded to, I gather hints that
the Government are "being firm" in Ireland, that evictions have been
going on, that there have been conflicts between the police and the
people, and that even some of my colleagues in the Parliamentary Party
have been arrested. One paragraph goes so far as to mention the really
interesting circumstance, that W-LL-M O'BR-N, has been cast into gaol,
where he sleeps on a plank bed, and that ARTH-R B-LF-R, emulating a
historic political feat, has stolen his clothes whilst he was sleeping.

This thing is probably an allegory, but it serves to support an opinion
I have always had with respect to the future of the Conservative
Government, and which enables me from time to time to stand aside from
the hurly-burly of active politics. I suppose that what the paragraphist
really means by the story of stealing O'BR-N'S clothes, is that ARTH-R
B-LF-R, as representative of Lord S-L-SB-RY'S Government, is coming out
as an advocate of Home Rule for Ireland. If I misread the allegory, the
error has but temporary effect. If it is not true to-day it will be true
to-morrow, or the day after, if only the Liberals have the ill-luck to
be deprived of precedence in the opportunity. If I never stirred finger
or raised voice again, Home Rule would be granted to Ireland by whatever
English Party chances to be in power when the moment is ripe. The ball
is set spinning, and it would be a mere accident, of no great import to
me or the Irish people, whether it is the M-RK-SS or GL-DST-NE that
kicks it into goal.

Hence you will see that though it may strike a superficial observer as
odd that I, of all men, should, at such a juncture, absent myself from
the field of battle and hide no one knows where, the course is not so
unreasonable as it appears. Why should I run the risk of burning my
fingers by pulling chestnuts out of the fire, when the foremost men in
English politics vie with each other in the effort to do it for me?
Amongst the few people with whom I come in contact here I pass for a
curate of Evangelical views, who, for private reasons, has quitted his
family and congregation, and tries, ineffectually they slily think, to
disguise himself by dispensing with clerical garb. I encourage this
self-deception, and am left free to sit in the sun when there is
any--and there is really an astonishing amount on this Southern coast in
November--and when it rains I put up my umbrella. Sometimes I hear on it
the patter of distant conflicts in Ireland, and open revolt in London.
These echoes of wild disturbance only make the sweeter my retirement. I
know that I am foolish to imperil my pastoral peace by inviting a
communication from you which may confirm the vague reports I have
alluded to. Still, I am a little curious to know is it _really true_
that W-LL-M O'BR-N sleeps on a plank bed; that W-LFR-D BL-NT, wearied of
the long repose of Egyptian affairs, has had his head broken by the
Royal Irish Constabulary; and that, with a refined cruelty which
testifies to the innate fiendishness of the Saxon nature, the presiding
Magistrate at Bow Street Police Court has ruthlessly refused to commit
for trial that truculent, dangerous personage, Mr. S-ND-RS, whom I
remember in the House as formerly Member for Hull?

                                     Yours serenely, C. S. P-RN-LL.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE WAIL OF THE WIRE.

(_With apologies to the Poet._)

"It is stated that Mr. SWINBURNE'S new poem was cabled to New York."


  Had I wist, wailed the wire in sea's hollow,
    That thousands of lines I should list,
  Pumped forth by a son of Apollo,
  I would not have lain here, not I,
  'Twixt Briton and Yankee a tie:
  No messages through me should fly,
      Had I wist.

  Had I wist, they would make me swallow,
    Huge poems all moonshine and mist,
  In addition to "speeches" all hollow;
  They shouldn't have cabled a thing,
  They shouldn't have used me to wing,
  Leagues of rhymes that the word-spinners sing,
      Had I wist.

       *       *       *       *       *

VALUABLE OPINION.--We understand that the Authorities have consulted Mr.
BRIEFLESS, Junior, Q.C., (Queer Counsel) on the right claimed by
indifferent passers-by to stand between the police and the mob, in view
of the Chief Commissioner's statement that such passers-by cause the
chief difficulty in quelling disturbance; The learned Counsel has given
a lucid opinion to the effect that any mere sightseer may be arrested
and imprisoned, unless he or she can prove the having come to the spot
for a riotous or other unlawful object.

       *       *       *       *       *

May in November.

(_At the Royalty Theatre._)

  Pieces French they're playing,--
    Jane's a pretty player,--
  Come with me a-Maying,
    Gaily sings the Mayer.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LESSON FOR THE DAY.--At Lowestoft Mr. MUNDELLA spoke well and wisely
on certain fishery questions. "With regard to outrages," said he, "in
the North Sea, I counsel English fishermen to suffer wrong rather than
do wrong, as then they could demand the protection of their industry by
Government." Why not get the start of the HARTINGTON and GOSCHEN
Travelling Co. (Limited), and deliver these excellent sentiments in
Ireland?

       *       *       *       *       *

"The Grosvenor 'Split,'" ought at once to be adopted by the Restaurant
of that establishment as a title for a special mixed drink. Let Sir
COUTTS patent it.

       *       *       *       *       *

"SPECIAL CONSTABLES."--Those belonging to the Collection in the National
Gallery.

       *       *       *       *       *

"IN THE PRESS."--Mr. O'BRIEN'S clothes.

       *       *       *       *       *

'TWILL ILLUME.

(_Poe applied._)

"Mr. WALT WHITMAN has just sent to Mr. ERNEST RHYS, a preface and some
new material for a second 'popular' volume of prose, to consist of
'Democratic Vistas' and other pieces."

                                         _Athenæum._

  Then I pacified Psyche, and kissed her,
    And tempted her out of her gloom,
  With the latest Walt-Whitmanish "Vista,"
    Which Democracy showed as our doom;
    Our unwelcome but obvious doom.
  And I said, "How's it written, sweet Sister?"
    "Is it bosh? Will it be a big boom?"
  She replied, "'Twill illume, 'twill illume.
    It is bosh, but quidnuncs 'twill illume!"

    *** Mr. POE, and not _Mr. Punch's_ Poet, is responsible for this
    Cockney rhyme.


       *       *       *       *       *

"CHRISTMAS IS COMING!"--"Tell me not in _Christmas_ Numbers," that
Christmas is coming. We wish the good old gentleman would not announce
his intended arrival so long beforehand. Everybody knows, that, like one
of his own Christmas books, he is "bound to appear" at a certain fixed
date. Among the first of the heralds on the bookstalls is the Christmas
Number of the _Penny Illustrated_, price threepence, and well worth the
money. Mr. LATEY, Junior, arranges a Christmas Literary and Artistic
Banquet, and every plate has a plateful of Christmas fare. The picture
entitled "Spoons" and representing two persons in evening-dress slipping
downstairs--"such a getting downstairs"--in a sitting position, probably
two amateur Tobogganists, is distinctly humorous. The coloured
illustration, called _The Christmas Ball_, will be a great favourite
with boys. If the Early Bird still catches the worm, the Latey one who
is first in the field with this Christmas number ought to pick up the
three-pennies.

       *       *       *       *       *

LITERARY.--It is announced that _Mr. Snodgrass_ has "thoroughly revised
his translations from HEINE." We expect next to hear that _Mr. Tracy
Tupman_ has "Englished" _Catullus_, and that _Mr. Winkle_ is preparing a
new edition of the _Book of Sports_.

       *       *       *       *       *

FLORAL APPEAL TO NOVEMBER.--"Fog-get-me-not!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE NE PLUS ULTRA.

_Jeames I._ "VERY DANGEROUS PARTIES THESE HUNEMPLOYED! WHY, THEY'RE A
BEGINNIN' TO DENOUNCE _HUS_!" _Jeames II._ "_NO!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

"'Twas in Trafalgar's Square."

Nov. 20, 1887.

_Nelson (as Special Constable) sings:_--

"England expects that every man This day will go on Duty!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LAST OF THE SOLOMONSES.--The final knockdown blow was given to poor
TUPPER'S _Proverbial Philosophy_ by Mr. JOHN MORLEY, who, in his
admirable discourse on Aphorisms, described it as a "too famous volume,"
which "had immense vogue, but it is so vapid, so wordy, so futile, as to
have a place among the books that dispense with parody." Alas! poor
TUPPER! _Mr. Punch_ bids thee adieu for ever!

       *       *       *       *       *

Will Mr. LOCKYER turn his attention Eastwards, and inform us if the
Corporation of the City of London is a "Self-luminous Body"? If so,
couldn't it be utilised in a fog?

       *       *       *       *       *

Describing the state of mind her Nephew was in on not being able to find
a stud at the last moment to put in his shirt-front, Mrs. RAM said, "Oh,
he was awfully iterated."

       *       *       *       *       *

A MESS.--What's on the _tapis_ in France? GRÉVY. M. WILSON, who speaks
Latin with English pronunciation, throws all the blame on his
father-in-law, and says it's a "_Grévy delictum_."

       *       *       *       *       *

"SPECIAL" REASONS:

  _Or, Why They were "Sworn In."_

  _Paterfamilias._ "Because I think it's my duty, as a law-abiding
          citizen, to set a good example."

  _Mister Tom (his son)._ "Because I must look after the old Governor,
      and see he doesn't come to grief."

  _Mr. Brown, Q.C._ "Because I'm not going to let those fellows, JONES
      and ROBINSON, think that I shirk the responsibility."

  _Messrs. Jones, M.D., and Robinson, R.A._ "Because we don't mean to be
          outdone by that fellow BROWN."

  _The West-end Young Man._ "Because, you know, I think, on the whole,
          it's the correct thing to do."

  _The Primrose-League Young Man._ "Because I should very much like to
          have a real chance of giving a Social Democrat a good whack on
          the head."

  _'Arry._ "Because it's such a prime lark."

  _The General Person._ "Because everybody seems to be doing it."

       *       *       *       *       *

Mem. by a Hater of Premature "Christmassing."

  "Christmas comes but once a year"--
  But it lasts three months at a stretch, that's clear.
  _I_ should like to pass the whole quarter in slumbers,
  To dodge the infliction of--Christmas Numbers!

       *       *       *       *       *

The Great Ochipaway Chief says that he intends to continue selling his
chips. But he has a log by him with which, as he has kept it for many
years, he will not part on any account.

       *       *       *       *       *

ON A RECENT CASTING VOTE.

  What! How did LYTTON get into the chair!
  The usual way--he mounted by the STAIR.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE REPORT ON THE FIRE AT THE EXETER THEATRE.--"Slow, but SHAW."

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

[Illustration]

For the library shelves of those whom "Providence has _not_ blessed with
affluence," and who cannot afford first editions or expensive bindings,
and for the working Journalist's library, the most useful books, the
most handy, though not belonging to the regular "Handy Volume Series,"
and the best adapted to the pockets of most men, specially of the class
above mentioned, are those forming _Morley's Universal Library_;
published by ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, which now number about fifty-five
volumes. BUTLER, BACON, CAVENDISH, COBBETT, DANTE, GOETHE, GOLDSMITH,
THOMAS-À-KEMPIS, SOPHOCLES, and DE QUINCEY, are all well represented;
and, following the fashion of the day, were I asked to provide "the
young man just beginning active life" with a list of the best set of
books for his study and perusal, I should have no hesitation in
referring him to _Morley's Universal Library_; and I know of no more
useful present at this Christmas time, or at any other time, than the
neat and convenient oak cases, a guinea each, made on purpose to contain
fifteen of the MORLEY volumes. I trust they will go on from year to
year, and so continue to deserve the title first given them by _Mr.
Punch_, of the "More-and-Morely Series," which fully expresses a
constant supply to meet a growing demand.

Long expected come at last! The HENRY IRVING and FRANK MARSHALL
_Shakspeare_, Vol. I., produced by Messrs. BLACKIE (one of which Firm
ought evidently to come out as _Othello_) as the Manager of the Lyceum
always gets up his plays "regardless of expense." The prefaces and
introductions will delight everyone who acknowledges the force of the
common-sense opinion, emphatically expressed more than once in _Mr.
Punch's_ pages, that SHAKSPEARE if acted just "as he is wrote" would not
suit the taste of an audience of the present day. The taste of the
modern audience is corrupted by Sensationalism and Materialism in every
shape and form--and at some theatres Materialism in shape and form is
one of the main attractions--and so impatient is it of anything like
development of character by means of dialogue, that it would have most
plays, no matter whether comedies or melodramas (there are no tragedies
now, except SHAKSPEARE'S), reduced as nearly as may be to mere ballets
of action. For the maxim of our audiences in this last quarter of the
"so-called" Nineteenth Century, as regards the drama, is _Facta non
verba_; before which imperious command those "who live to please," and
who "must please to live," are compelled, be they authors or actors, to
bow, and do their best, speaking as little as possible, so as not to
give offence.

  "Break, break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue,"

is the cry of any author nowadays who aims at writing a true Comedy. Mr.
IRVING marks clearly enough all the passages usually omitted in
representation, which of themselves would make a small volume, but we
are not shown the arrangement of scenes necessitated by the exigences of
the stage, or rather by the taste of the audience, and so in this
respect the plays remain pretty much as their author left them. Some
stage-directions have been introduced, but as Mr. FRANK MARSHALL denies
that this is in any sense an "acting edition"--while Mr. IRVING in his
preface rather seems to imply that in some sense it is so,--I should be
inclined to describe the work as "a contribution in aid of an acting
edition," and I am delighted to add, a most valuable contribution it is,
at least so far. _Ex uno disce omnes_, and if the other volumes are only
on a par with this first instalment, IRVING and MARSHALL'S--it wouldn't
do to put MARSHALL first in the Firm, because it would at once suggest,
"and SNELGROVE" to follow--or this HENRY and FRANK'S edition of
SHAKSPEARE will be one of the most perfect and the most serviceable to
the ordinary reader that has as yet been given to the public. In order
to illustrate the Messrs. BLACKIE'S judicious liberality, Mr. MARSHALL
tells us that, with the view of making the work more complete by the
introduction of certain explanations, "they (Messrs. BLACKIE) entirely
recast all the notes to _Richard the Second_, though they (the notes,
not Messrs. BLACKIE) had been already stereotyped." Oh, that Theatrical
Managers would be as wise in their generations as were even these poor
publishers, and when they see that a piece, SHAKSPEARE'S or anybody
else's, is in an unsatisfactory state for representation, at once
"recast it entirely," in spite of all the old "stereotyped" tie-wig
objections. Mr. IRVING in his preface makes a sort of apology for the
luxurious extravagance of modern stage decoration. There is no necessity
for this. The Stage reflects the fashion of the day, and that fashion is
Materialism. Mr. MARSHALL'S critical remarks on _The Comedy of Errors_,
_Love's Labour's Lost_, _Romeo and Juliet_, and _Henry the Sixth_, Part
I., are admirable, difficult subjects being most delicately handled. He
has no note on the appearance of an "Abbess," and on a scene "in front
of a Priory," in the first of these plays, of which the action takes
place about 300 B.C.; but I suppose that, though seldom risking anything
in a case of importance, he on this occasion consulted the DYCE, and
concluded that there was some "a priory" argument in favour of the
existence of Abbesses three hundred years before they were invented. A
genius like SHAKSPEARE is above time and place. Mr. MARSHALL is of
opinion (in a footnote, and I think he has here put his foot in it) that
SHAKSPEARE never descended to sycophancy for the sake of pleasing his
royal patroness. I shall be curious to see what he has to say on this
subject when he comes to tackle the characteristic speech given to
_Cranmer_ in the last scene of _Henry the Eighth_. Mr. MARSHALL dealing
with _Joan of Arc_, in _Henry the Sixth_, notices how SHAKSPEARE halts
between two opinions, but decides as a courtier and a man of business
would have done. The courtier remembers that _Joan_ was not the only
heroic virgin who had cheered her troops on to victory, but that the
masculine Queen BESS had also mounted a cock-horse, like the lady of
Banbury Cross, and had encouraged her soldiers with brave words at
Tilbury Fort. Where the full-flavoured British Queen had succeeded,
evidently the humble Gallic peasant maid must fail, at least, on the
stage. If _Gloriana_ was to be the pride of Old England, _La Pucelle_
must be held up to _Gloriana's_ subjects as a vile impostor, and a
witch. SHAKSPEARE would not allow sentiment to interfere with business.
Most of Mr. GORDON BROWNE'S illustrations are charmingly designed and
executed, and the prefaces, introductions to SHAKSPEARE'S family
(managed by F.A.M., Master of the Ceremonies), and critical remarks,
ought to satisfy the most exacting of Shakspearian students.

[Illustration: "Hist, Romeo, hist!" _R. & J._, Act II., Sc. 2.]

[Illustration: "He bears him like a portly gentleman." _R. & J._, Act
I., Sc. 4.]

_Prince Lucifer_ (MACMILLAN & CO.) by ALFRED AUSTIN. I do not wish to
make an ostentatious--or rather, in this instance, Austin-tatious--
display of my unpoetic nature, but I cannot understand why ALFRED the
Less chose this name of _Lucifer_ for his hero. The title, for
advertising purposes, certainly arrests the eye. Of course, as ALFRED
the Less would say, in his light Lucifer manner--

  "Lucifer," I own to liking; | Names are nothing, if not striking.

And Lucifer is nothing to speak of, if not intended to serve a striking
purpose. A second title might perhaps have assisted the public to an
explanation, _Lucifer; or, The Love Match_. _Prince Lucifer_ suggests
something naughty, and worse--or naughty in werse--for there is nothing
to assure us beforehand that Mr. AUSTIN'S "Prince of Darkness is a
gentleman" who wouldn't shock our religious or moral sentiments on any
account, not even on his own. But though the book could not, perhaps, be
recommended by Mr. PODSNAP to the "Young Person," yet I should carefully
consider the intelligent capacity of the Young Person before presenting
her with such a specimen of "light and misleading" literature as _Prince
Lucifer_, to judge it only from its title, might Austinsibly be. It
contains some of Mr. AUSTIN'S best work, and when, in this foggy
weather, I call for "Light! More light!" I shall be perfectly satisfied
if they bring me Mr. AUSTIN'S new patent _Lucifer_.

                                      YOUR OWN BARON DE BOOK WORMS.

[Illustration:]

       *       *       *       *       *

Albert Hall Concert, Wed., Nov. 16.

  With PATTI, and SANTLEY, and LLOYD,
    The attraction was great, and it drew
  An audience muchly annoyed
    By a fog they could scarcely see through.
  "Big House"--it was choke-full ... of fog,
    Which kept a good many away.
  Too bad, for a "dead-head" is Fog,--
    Comes in free. Mister Fog doesn't pay.

       *       *       *       *       *

A CONFESSOR'S COSTUME.--Under a system of prison discipline admitting of
no distinction of prisoners, Mr. W. O'BRIEN, confined in Tullamore Gaol,
complains that he has been deprived of the clothes which he prefers to
the prison uniform. Some sympathy is due to a misguided gentleman
divested of decent habiliments; but the grievance which he has
injudiciously brought upon himself is one for which he will sooner or
later, at least if he pleases, be enabled to obtain redress.

       *       *       *       *       *

L. C. & D. v. S. E.

  Says WATKIN, "This, FORBES,
  Makes us open our orbs!"

  "Your orbs," FORBES replies,
  "And your pockets likewise."

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR DEBATING CLUB.

With the fall of the leaf, and the first touch of fog in the atmosphere,
it has been the time-honoured practice of the "Gargoyle" Club, ever
since its establishment eighteen months ago, to resume the sittings,
temporarily suspended during the Summer. The "Gargoyles" are, I should
explain, an assembly of earnest, thoughtful young men, who arrange to
meet upon one evening in the week for purposes of mental friction, and
the discussion of the social questions of the day. We have a President,
an Honorary Secretary, a ballot-box, a balance-sheet, a printer's bill,
and, in short, everything handsome about us. It is the custom to consume
tobacco, in some form, during our meetings--except in the case of a
member who is actually upon his legs addressing the house, when
etiquette, and indeed convenience, require him to abstain for the time
being. It is, perhaps, this rule which restricts several of us
(including the writer) from expressing our sentiments in any sustained
form. For myself, indeed, I am the victim of a diffidence at present
unconquerable; it costs me an inconceivable effort to say even as much
as "hear-hear," and accordingly I listen and learn, making copious notes
for future edification, and coming away on each occasion with a strong
flavour of tobacco, and the consciousness that, intellectually speaking,
the evening has been by no means wasted. These notes I am now enabled,
by the express sanction of a majority of the members (who considered it
only right that some suggestive crumbs from our feasts of reason should
be conceded to the outer world) to communicate through the medium of
_Mr. Punch_. We could, perhaps, have preferred a journal with a higher
reputation for seriousness, but the truth is that the daily papers
declined, by common consent, to report our proceedings, on the plea that
they were "not of sufficient public interest;" and we therefore decided
to waive the obvious disadvantages of association with a paper of whose
tone we do not always or entirely approve, in consideration of placing
ourselves in touch with a section of the public who are too little apt
to give any serious attention to improving topics.

The Editor, somewhat autocratically, has reserved the right of
condensation and selection, although it has been pointed out to him
that--without adding a single extra sheet to his number--ample space
could be afforded for a full report (which I would undertake to furnish)
of our debates were the simple expedient adopted of temporarily
discontinuing the Cartoon in our favour. Popular as we cannot but think
such a step would be, we gravely fear that it will not be taken--unless
some pressure is brought to bear from outside. It is something, perhaps,
even to have gained as much as we have; something that, amidst the
shrill squeak and frivolous chuckle of _Punch_, will be heard from time
to time the deeper, graver notes of the Gargoyle Club. We are not
enemies of fun; we only think that there may be many, like ourselves,
who consider it possible to have too much of it. The Editor, we are glad
to admit at once, seems quite to recognise the sincerity of our desire
to raise the tone of his periodical, and is willing to allow us to try
the experiment--though he expresses a doubt whether these contributions
will have quite the effect we anticipate. We shall see. In the meantime,
I must preface my first notes, taken last Session, by a short sketch of

PINCENEY, OUR PRESIDENT.

PINCENEY possesses a mind, perhaps the most comprehensive in all
Paddington. I have known him--I wish I could say intimately--now for
over nine months, and I can confidently assert that I have never yet
heard him confess to ignorance of any department of human knowledge, of
any branch of modern thought! In intellectual stature he towers miles
above us all, and weekly increases that altitude under our very eyes by
drinking two bottles of some sparkling beverage composed of phosphates.
He is coldly tolerant of the world's failings, and is understood to
confine himself to a fish diet. He speaks little, but that little falls
with immense weight. PINCENEY is not genial, or, indeed social of
manner--he suffers us, but not gladly--listening to each speaker with
conscientious attention, as if it was always possible that he might
utter something not immeasurably below contempt before he sat down. He
has a little bell by which he warns the wanderer, and paralyses the
prolix, and his preliminary caress of this bell is a rebuke in itself.
It would be too much to say that PINCENEY is popular amongst his fellow
Gargoyles; he neither courts nor desires popularity. Indeed, he ranges
somewhat too much apart, and goes home alone by the Underground the
moment his duties are concluded. But he is greatly respected, and if we
feel, as we sometimes do feel, that his standard is rather too high and
exacting, at other times the consciousness acts upon us as a decided
incentive.

OUR VICE-PRESIDENT.

HARTUPP, our Vice-President, is of a very different mental calibre and
disposition. He is of a warm and enthusiastic temperament, and endowed
with a lava-like flow of eloquence. HARTUPP is showy, but, as he would
be the first to admit himself, a trifle superficial. He is at present
articled to a solicitor, but he is more calculated to shine at the Bar,
where fervour has a freer scope than in an office. He melts and thrills
us by turns, speaking without preparation and without notes, for which
he apologises in carefully constructed sentences. Altogether, HARTUPP is
one of our most distinguished Gargoyles. I may add that he lives at
Notting Hill with his mother.

OUR HONORARY SECRETARY.

Mr. FREDERICK FADELL, is one of our most energetic and useful members.
He is the only one (except perhaps PINCENEY) who possesses anything like
a working acquaintance with all the rules. He is a Barrister-at-Law, and
finds his chambers very useful for preparing minutes and sending out
notices relative to the business of the Club. FADELL is no great orator,
though he can speak with some fluency to a point of order. What he
_really_ enjoys is superintending an election by ballot. During our
debates he steals about with an air of mystery, conducting long
conversations in a whisper with such members as he wishes to induce to
join in the discussion. His whole existence is bound up in the Gargoyle
Club, and he is deeply alive to the responsibilities of his position.

With these preliminary introductions, the Public must be perforce
contented for the present. I hope, however, on future occasions, to be
permitted to give some further idea of the work we are doing, and more
especially of the manner in which it is performed--though the ruthless
compression to which, as I have hinted above, I have reason to believe
my notes will be subjected, may deprive them of much of their interest
and value.

       *       *       *       *       *

SO SEASONABLE, YOU KNOW.

SIR,--I read a letter in the _St. James's Gazette_, signed "PAGE HOPPS."
The gentleman stood for somewhere, and may be standing still, were such
a contradiction in terms between "standing still" and "Hopps"
reconcileable. Is he an Irreconcileable? I am no politician, and don't
want to be, specially just now. But such a name as "PAGE HOPPS" must
stand for something, and what struck me as a sort of Christmassy idea
was, what a cheery, suggestive name "PAGE HOPPS" really is! What a
picture it conjures up of a true old-fashioned Christmas jollification,
where all distinctions are obliterated, the Masses join with the
Classes, and the Misses go with the Kisses, under the sprig of
mistletoe. "PAGE HOPPS!" What a delightful household! Page hops, Butler
skips, Footman jumps, Cook capers, Housemaid dances, Scullerymaid
slides, while

  Master plays the violin,
    And Missus the guitar.
  We are a merry family,
  We are! We are! We are!!

I drink his health, the health of P. HOPPS, Hop! Hop! Hooray! in beer,
of course. This comes hopping you're well.

 Yours ever,

_Spring Bank, Out of Bounds._ A. HOPPIDAN.

       *       *       *       *       *

To the Unemployed.

  "Remember Mitchelstown!"
    And do not join a mob.
  But if you do, you're likely to
    Get "one" upon your nob.

  If not to get knocked down,
    And squelched, you greatly care,
  Remember, then, both Mitchelstown,
    And eke Trafalgar Square!

       *       *       *       *       *

_Sports and Anecdotes of Bygone Days._ By C. T. S. B. REYNARDSON.
Without four initials Reynard's son ought to know by this time as much
about sport as sly old Reynard himself. Illustrated, too, in colours,
but not with his own brush.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Powers that Be.

  Against "One Man Power," the cry is now raised,
    By moralists noted for meekness.
  Perchance the new protest were more to be praised,
    If directed against "one man weakness."
  The partisan man is so given to glower,
    At his bigger, or luckier, brother man,
  One fears that this railing against "one-man power,"
    Means craving the power for--_another_ man.

CHIEF ITEM IN A GLADSTONIAN MENU.--"A Chop and Chips."

A PERFECT PANDEMONIUM.--Demon-stration in Trafalgar Square.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE "PONDS ASINORUM" AGAIN!

_Cabby._ "OH! YER THINKS SEVEN-AND-SIXPENCE TOO MUCH, DO YER, FOR COMIN'
ALL THE WAY UP TO 'AMPSTEAD! WELL--'ERE I STOPS TILL I'M PAID, THAT'S
ALL!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

EXTRA SPECIAL.

As many married men have recently been sworn in as supplementary
Policemen, and as ladies are usually entirely ignorant of law, it
may be as well to give a list of the statutory regulations of the
duties of Special Constables. Here they are:--

1. Special Constables will occasionally be expected to spend several
hours every evening in the card-room of the Club in search of
information.

2. Their duties may occasionally require them to pay a visit to Paris
for a fortnight, or even three weeks, to study for themselves on the
spot the working of the French Judicature Act.

3. It may be imperatively necessary for them to be present at the "first
nights" of new pieces, when, they will be expected to take supper at the
Club, so that they may have an opportunity of confidentially exchanging
notes with their fellow-constables.

4. At any time they may be required not to dine at home, but, for
purposes of the police, join a visit of inspection to dinners chiefly
associated with bachelors.

5. Every Special Constable (if not already in possession of one) must be
supplied with a latch-key, under a penalty of £20--payable by his wife.

6. It is strictly forbidden (and the offence, when proved, will entail a
sentence of penal servitude for an indefinite period) for a Special
Constable to give any information as to his movements to any one,
inclusive of his wife.

7. It will be a part of his duty occasionally to come home with the man
bringing the early morning milk.

8. Lastly, on extraordinary occasions, when it is necessary that he
should be ready to return to his beat at a moment's notice, it is lawful
that he should retire to bed in his boots.

       *       *       *       *       *

REASONS WHY.--The CHANCELLOR of the EXCHEQUER will accompany Lord
HARTINGTON to Ireland, first because he thinks that the latter's stolid
style of oratory will have no effect on the impulsive Celt without a
good deal of gushin'; and, secondly, because he wants to have his share
of the anticipated HARTY reception.

       *       *       *       *       *

PROMENADING.

I attended the Opening Night of the Promenade Concerts at Her Majesty's
on Saturday week. A crowded house; everybody in the best of humours.
Mlle. ELLY WARNOTS trilled her most brilliant "variations," Miss
FLORENCE ST. JOHN carried off the lioness's share of applause and
bouquets. There was a new "Vocal valse," entitled "_Laughing Beauties_"
in which a chorus of "ladies in costume" invited us to buy what the
programme waggishly described as:--

  "Sweet violets for the meek, tra, la, la, la, la,
  Fond _ivory_ for the weak, ha, ha, ha, ha, ho!"

The programme, by the way, contained one or two other similar
eccentricities. Miss ST. JOHN was announced as inquiring in a song of
BEHREND'S, "Why do your big tears _fears_ fall, Daddy?"--hardly a fair
question to be addressed to any parent. Fortunately she preferred to
sing the line in a less enigmatical form, but the gifted author of
_Daddy_, should insist on correcting his own proofs next time. Then we
had a "descriptive Piece for Orchestra,"--_The Bulgarian Patrol_, in
which the melody began faintly, and came nearer and nearer with the
clank of metal, till it gradually died away again in the distance. "Oh,
wot a novelty!" as I heard a street-vendor remark the other day
concerning the "panorammer of the Lord Mayor's Show," he was offering to
a dubious public. But the public at Her Majesty's applauded the
_Bulgarian Patrol_ as impartially as they did his Turkish forerunner.

                                   (_Signed_)      A. BOUTIGO JONES.

       *       *       *       *       *

ADVICE GRATIS.--Young HOFFMANN is Hoff! Gone from our gaze, perhaps,
with a COOK'S Ticket. But, anyhow, the Juvenile Phenomenal Pianist has
gone. Peace go with him--let him rest. Don't allow him to get within
half a mile of a piano, or he is sure to go to pieces. All work and all
play will make young HOFFMANN a dull Young Man. Beware, O Parents and
Guardians, in time.

       *       *       *       *       *

_À PROPOS_ OF A CERTAIN ILLUSTRIOUS SUFFERER.--Who shall
decide when Doctors disagree? The Patient. This is the sad Moral,
MACKENZIE.

[Illustration: THE GRAND OLD _JANUS_.

"QUITE RIGHT, CONSTABLE!" | "QUITE WRONG, CONSTABLE!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

'ARRY ON LAW AND ORDER!

[Illustration]

DEAR CHARLIE,

  Ascuse shaky scribble; I'm writing this letter in bed.
  Went down to the Square, mate,--last Sunday,--and got a rare clump on
      the 'ed.
  Beastly shame, and no error, my pippin! Me cop it! It's too jolly rum.
  When a reglar Primroser gits toko, one wonders wot next there will
      come.

  It wos all Bobby's blunder, in course; Mister BURLEIGH and me was
      "mistook."
  _I_ went jest for a lark, nothink else, and wos quietly slinging my
      'ook,
  Wen a bit of a rush came around me, a truncheon dropped smack on my
      nob,
  And 'ere I ham, tucked up in bed, with a jug of 'ot spruce on the
      'ob.

  'Ard lines, ain't it, CHARLIE, old hoyster? A barney's a barney, dear
      boy,
  And you know that a squeege and a skylark is wot I did always enjoy.
  A street-rush is somethink splendacious to fellers of sperrit like me,
  But dints and diakkylum plaster will spile the best sport, dontcher
      see.

  Don't you fancy the "Hunemployed," bunkum has nobbled me; not sech a
      mug!
  And as fer O'BRIEN and his breeches, I'm glad the fool's fairly in
      jug.
  No, no, Law and Horder's my motter, but wen a spree's on 'ARRY'S
      there;
  And I thought, like a lot of the Swells, I should find one that day
      in the Square.

  Lord Mayor's Day with a scrimmage chucked in is a hopening too
      temptin' to miss.
  More pertikler wen all in "the Cause"--Law and Horder, I mean,
      mate--like this.
  I despises the Poor and the Spouters; to see their 'eds jolly well
      broke
  Is fun, but a bash on one's own--well, there, somehow it spiles the
      whole joke.

  The Perlice wos too dashed hinderscriminate, that's where it wos, my
      dear boy;
  Wich they couldn't take _me_ for a Paddy or 'umbugging "Out of
      Employ."
  Wen that cop got his hand on my collar he ought to 'ave knowed like a
      shot,
  By the Astrykan only, that _I_ wasn't one o' the Socherlist lot.

  I 'ate 'em, dear CHARLIE, I 'ate 'em! They wants to stop piling the
      pelf,
  Wen that is wot every dashed one of us wants to be piling hisself.
  No, Wealth is wot _must_ be kep up and pertected, wotever goes wrong;
  And to talk of abolishing Millionnaires, CHARLIE, is coming it strong.

  They are like prize Chrysanthemums, CHARLIE; for, if you want them,
      don'tcher see,
  You must nip off some thousands of buds to let one or two swell and
      grow free.
  Jest you turn a lot loose in yer garden, and _that_ ain't the way as
      they'll grow;
  But if 'undreds weren't sacrificed daily to one, you would not get
      no Show.

  That's Life in a nutshell, my bloater! All wants to be fust, but they
      can't;
  Most on us is wasters; the game of the snide un's to be a Prize Plant.
  Then you're mugged up to-rights and made muck of, but, oh, you must be
      a big ass,
  If you fancies as daisies is dealt with like horchids, and grown under
      glass!

  Ask Gentleman JOE. _He_ knows better, he's finding it out more and
      more,
  And his Radical rot about "ransom" won't turn up agen; it don't score.
  "Law and Horder's" the tip I can tell yer. I'm on to it fairly for
      one,
  And there's ony one thing I finds fault with; they _do_ rayther
      bunnick up Fun!

  If heverythink's on the Q.T., and a Peeler is always at 'and--
  And _that's_ Law and Horder you bet, as beknown to the rich and the
      grand--
  It's O.K. for the 'olders of ochre, who, if they've a mind for a
      spree,
  Can always palm-oil Mr. Peeler, and do it _upon_ the Q.T.

  But hus, CHARLIE, hus? I likes Horder, and likeways I'm partial to
      Law,
  Wen it means keeping _my_ swim all clear, and a muzzling my henemy's
      jaw.
  Wy, nothink could easy be nicerer, then, don'tcher see, dear old pal;
  But supposing that game interferes with _my_ larks, or _my_ lush, or
      _my_ gal?

  Local Hopshun, for instance, or Betting Laws, Prize Fight pervention,
      and such
  That some mealy-mouthed mugs are so sweet on; if they cop us, life
      ain't wuth much.
  Contrydicting myself? Oh, well, CHARLIE, I've sech a blarmed pain in
      my 'ed,
  And life looks a queer sort of mix wen you boss the whole bizness from
      bed.

  DAN the Dosser, who knows the Square well, 'aving slep in it night
      arter night,
  Sez the Golden Calf safely railed in by the Law is a 'eavenly sight.
  Acos Horder is 'Eaven's first Law, and, in conserkense, Law Earth's
      first horder;
  The Calf may sit safely hinside, whilst Scapegoats is kep hout of the
      border.

  I can't git the 'ang of his lingo; his patter's all picter somehow,
  And wot he quite means by that Calf, mate, _I_ dunno no more than a
      cow.
  But the Scapegoat, that's _him_, I suppose, and he looks it; it's
      rough, as he says;
  No marbles, no lodging, no grub, and that sort o' thing kep up for
      days!

  But the Scapegoats must not kick up shindies, and stop up our streets
      and our squares,
  That's a moral. Perhaps there is grabbers as wants to swag more than
      their shares.
  I ain't nuts on sweaters myself, and I do 'ate a blood-sucking screw,
  Who sponges and never stands Sam, and whose motto's "all cop, and no
      blue."

  Still, this 'ere blooming Hanarchy, CHARLEY, won't do at no figger,
      dear boy.
  A bit of a rorty romp round in the open a chap can enjoy,
  But brickbats and hoyster-knives? Walker! Not on in that scene, mate,
      not me!
  And a bash on the nob with a batton is not _my_ idea of a spree.

  To bonnet a lot of old blokes and make petticoats squeal is good biz,
  But a Crusher's 'ard knuckles a crunching yer scrag? No, I'm blowed
      if _that_ is!
  Let 'em swarm "in their thousands"--the mugs!--and their black and red
      flags let 'em carry;
  But wen they are next on the job they will 'ave to look wide-oh! for
                                                               'ARRY.

       *       *       *       *       *

CUTTINGS AND SLIPS.--The following were extracted from the _Manchester
Evening News_, Nov. 14:--

    RESPECTABLE Woman WANTS WASHING, at Altrincham.

    RESPECTABLE Widow WANTS WASHING for Tuesday.

The first one is not in a hurry; the second is, and names the day. Then
or never. At first we thought it was a new form of advertising
Somebody's Soap.

       *       *       *       *       *

TO HIS MISTRESS.

_From a Distracted Grammarian with "To Be" in his Bonnet._

  With you, O Superlative Maiden,
    There can no Comparison be;
  And though Grammar makes "You" Second Person,
    You are first of all Persons to me.

  At Present my life is Imperfect
    (Not Irregular, _nota bené_),
  But with you for Auxiliary, dearest,
    How Perfect our Future might be.

  Considering my Antecedents,
    Your Relatives can but Agree;
  And since I'm Defective in Number,
    You cannot Decline me, you see.

  I sigh; but by mere Interjections
    My Case cannot influenced be:
  Then grant the Conjunction I plead for,
    And so with your Subject agree.

       *       *       *       *       *

Among the books with which the Prison Authorities should have supplied
Mr. O'BRIEN ought to have been a copy of "The Breeches Bible." When he
comes out, will he commence a suit against the Government?

       *       *       *       *       *

AMERICAN CHORUS.

  We'll state what we think of your Brummagem JOE.
  He's "so English you know,"--yes, "so English, you know."

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE SLEEPER AWAKENED!" New Cantata, dedicated to the Right Hon. HENRY
MATTHEWS, the Not-Yet-Quite-at-Home Secretary.

       *       *       *       *       *

PROBABLE PICTURES FOR CHRISTMAS NUMBERS

BY SIR J. E. MILLAIS, R.A.

(_Suggested by this eminent "Sporting and Dramatic" Artist's "Portia"
now being exhibited on all the bookstalls._)

[Illustration: LADY MACBETH.

"OR ANYBODY ELSE. DOESN'T MATTER.
QUITE A----J. E. M."]

[Illustration: SHYLOCK; or, The Masher of Venice.

"COMPANION PICTURE TO MY 'PORTIA.'
A VERY BRILLIANT----J. E. M."]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE WOES OF THE WATER CONSUMER.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--What Greek philosopher was it who held that Water was
the beginning and essence of all things? Our modern Sanitarians appear
to agree with him. At any rate, if they do not look upon water as the
great essence, they declare it to be the prime essential, and present
fearsome pictures of the results of any deficiency in its plentifulness
and purity.

But, Sir, between the Landlord who won't put it on, and the Water
Company who will cut it off, what is a poor Tenant to do? In one day I
read, first, that Mr. WILLIAM CHRISTIE is summoned by the Sanitary
Inspector of St. Saviour's, Southwark, for obstinately refusing to
provide a suitable water-supply to twelve houses in Park Street,
Southwark; secondly, that the East London Waterworks Company is summoned
by a Mr. ERNEST BRANSEMER for cutting off the water at his house in
Boundary Passage, Shoreditch, without lawful excuse. Looks encouraging,
doesn't it? True, Mr. KEBBELL, the Company's Solicitor, assured Mr.
HANNAY that the Company was really in the right, and that the man had
suffered from the fault of his Landlord. Perhaps so, in this case.
Anyhow it seems to be admitted that the man suffered, and suffered
unjustly. In this case, too, the Company (said its Solicitor) had been
"very good," had paid the man and settled the matter. Mr. HANNAY is
reported to have said, "Really!" which seems almost to imply a mild
surprise. Surprised at the "goodness" of a Water Company!!! Well, it is
a painful fact that the prevailing faith in the proprietors of
Waterworks is much of the complexion of _Sam Weller's_ in the
"Waterworks" of the Mulberry One. Only that the Companies, as a rule,
are not quite so ready to "turn it on at the main," as was the
lachrymose and deceptive _Job Trotter_.

"The Company do not fear the Magistrate's decision," said Mr. KEBBELL,
loftily. "It is the trial by newspapers which follows, which is so
objectionable." Doubtless: from the Company's point of view. Whether the
Consumer shares that opinion may be questioned, perhaps.

Anyhow, _Mr. Punch_, my own confidence in the "native worth" of Water
Companies and Landlords, being a plant of slow growth, which, indeed,
has hardly yet appeared above ground, I should like to call attention to
the dilemma which the "tub"-loving, fever-fearing Tenant is liable to
fall into between the two. If this savours of that obnoxious practice,
"trial by newspapers," I am sorry; but really, Sir, the Tenant has his
"trials," of another sort, which are very "objectionable" indeed, and
which, I fear, without the publicity afforded by the Press, neither the
justice of Landlords, nor the "goodness" of Water Companies could be
implicitly trusted to relieve him from. At least, such is the experience
of

                                           Yours truly,      AQUARIUS.

       *       *       *       *       *

KEPT IN;

OR, THE LEAGUER BELEAGUERED.

_A Right-thinking Radical requests information._

  Hast thou seen that lordly castle,
    The home of Mr. PYNE;
  How round its patriot portals
    The Peelers prowl and whine?

  I suppose those brutal butchers,
    Without the slightest fail,
  Would stretch the M.P. on the rack,
    And afterwards impale?

_An Unfeeling Unionist answers him_--

  Well do I know that castle,
    The home of Mr. PYNE;
  But of the Peelers with their rack
    There's not a single sign.

_The Right-thinking Radical expresses surprise at the intelligence_--

  Indeed! But at some high casement
    Surely you saw him stand,
  Or out from a towering rampart
    Waving a mailèd hand?

_The Unfeeling Unionist rejoins_--

  I _did_ see him at the casement,
    And he wore no armour at all,
  But the Postman helps him haul the mail
    Over his castle wall!

_The Right-thinking Radical proceeds with his questionings_--

  And sawest thou on the turret
    How he paced to and fro,
  All glorious in gold and purple,
    Like a Knight of long ago?

_The Unfeeling Unionist replies_--

  He had a modern frock-coat on,
    Which wasn't much of a fit;
  And I think a Knight would have stopped to fight,
    And not run away from a writ.

_The Right-thinking Radical plies him once again_--

  But do they not thirst, those Peelers,
    To tear him limb from limb;
  And level his antique castle,
    If once they could get at him?

_The Unfeeling Unionist ends the colloquy_--

  That would not result from his capture;
    You seem to have been misled!
  It would merely entail a month in gaol,
    Or perhaps, like O'BRIEN, in bed.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the _Standard's_ report of Mr. LABOUCHERE'S after-dinner speech to
the members of the Eleusis Club, the warier of the two Northampton
Members observed, "that we lived in critical times, when it was
absolutely necessary that Radicals should hang together." Mr. LABOUCHERE
speaks trippingly, but he is not often to be caught tripping. The
Conservative _Standard_ missed an opportunity.

       *       *       *       *       *

LATEST ADDITION TO FAIRY LAND.--Mr. Irish Secretary BALFOUR must be all
over the country at once. For this he requires Seven (Land)-League
boots.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE REAL "EMPIRE OF THE HITTITES."--The prevailing passion for
pugilists.

       *       *       *       *       *

A sporting tandem-driving Doctor of our acquaintance calls his leader
the _Hoss frontis_.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "'HAD HIM THERE!"

_Free Kirk Elder._ "EIGH! MEENISTER, AH NO LIKE T'SEE YE TALKIN' WI' YON
EPEESCOPALIAN PRIEST!"

_Minister._ "OO--I JEEST OFFERED TO SWAP COLLECTIONS WI'M, AN' HE SAID,
'NA, NA! I KEN YOUR FLOCK OWER WEEL!'"]

       *       *       *       *       *

ALMOST TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

As an impecunious Peer, whose entire existence consists of
one long struggle to provide for the necessities of a large family, need
I say that my eye chanced upon the subjoined advertisement with a
sense of relief and hopefulness that words almost fail to express? I
quote it for your perusal. Here it is:--

    WHAT TO DO WITH YOUR SONS.--Journalism.--Mr. DAVID ANDERSON, 222,
    Strand, W.C., Author of _Scenes in the Commons_, &c., from 1879, a
    principal Leader Writer, Special Correspondent, and Critic of the
    _Daily Telegraph_, INSTRUCTS a limited number of YOUNG MEN in the
    practical and literary branches of Journalism. Prospectus free.

    An ordinary trained Journalist earns from £300 to £1000 a year.

That, _Mr. Punch_, is the question I have been asking myself for ever so
long--"What on earth _am_ I to do with my sons?" And this Mr. DAVID
ANDERSON, with a message that seems almost too good to be true, comes
like the radiant genius on to the scene, and says, "Send them to me,
your Grace, and I'll soon put 'em in the way of making from £300 to
£1000 a year. What do you think of that?" What do I think of it? Well,
all I can say is that it sounds to me like an ANDERSON'S Fairy Tale!

Why, there's my elder son, the Marquis, just opened a market gardening
business at Tooting in a small way, and though he drives his cart up to
Covent Garden twice a week himself, I know he's not making a good thing
of it. PLANTAGENET, my second, I'm not ashamed to own it, shoulders a
butcher's tray; BERTRAM is a linen-draper's assistant in the Tottenham
Court Road; and ALGERNON is, _faute de mieux_, loafing about railway
stations, following cabs, in the hope of picking up a stray sixpence now
and then for carrying the luggage upstairs when they arrive at their
destinations. Poor boy! I had always meant him to have a Commission in
the Guards, but hard times have rendered that project impossible--and he
has come to this!

With one hundred and seventy farms on my hands, the whole of my property
mortgaged, my house in Belgrave Square given up, and my establishment
confined to a couple of floors in a back street in Islington, the family
has, I need hardly say, to accept its altered fortunes with equanimity.
But, if Mr. DAVID ANDERSON is to be trusted, surely a brighter prospect
opens before us! How he manages his instructions "in the practical and
literary branches of journalism," is to me a mystery. How does he teach
his "limited number" of pupils to report--say, an inaudible speech? Then
there is their practical training for a crowd. Does he lead them at the
present moment, to Trafalgar Square, and teach them, in the event of a
collision with the police, to continue their labours up a lamp-post?
Again, how about initiating them into the work of a correspondent
mounted on the field of battle? Would their experience on a hired
cab-horse let loose in the midst of a procession of the Unemployed
afford the many useful experiences in this direction? Then, how about
the leader-writing? I do not say that the journalist, like the poet,
need necessarily be born one, yet for all that, the art of literary
composition is not one that can be readily acquired by anybody.

Take my own case. I have written a _lever du rideau_ in the shape of a
farce, a light thing that plays only an hour and three-quarters, and
though I have submitted it to seventeen managers in succession, I have
never been able to induce one of them to try it even at a matinée. I
have also written a pantomime and left it, endorsed with my title at the
stage-door of a leading Metropolitan Theatre, from which however,
notwithstanding that I have made repeated applications for it in person,
I have never yet been able to succeed in getting it returned. But
journalism is, I am aware, distinct from dramatic literature, and
this inspires me with confidence. Indeed I shall lose no time in
communicating with Mr. DAVID ANDERSON and placing my four sons
unreservedly in his hands. Even if they did not as "trained journalists"
succeed in realising that brilliant level of £1000 per annum, with which
his advertisement so alluringly concludes, they might possibly touch the
figure half-way, and draw their modest five hundred a-piece. Need I say,
my dear Mr. Punch, if they did, how they would restore the fortunes of a
falling house, and in so doing, gladden the heart of yours hopefully,

                                    A DUKE IN DIFFICULTIES.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE TOO-COMPLETE LETTER-WRITER.--M. WILSON.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE.

(_A Cosmos Story._)

CHAPTER I.

Mr NOMAN LUCKIER, the eminent astronomer, was walking in his garden.
Suddenly he was staggered by a sharp blow on the head. Something fell at
his feet. It was not his head. He picked it up. It was a meteoric stone.
This set him thinking.

"Here," said he, as he rubbed his newly-acquired phrenological
development with one hand and held the meteoric stone in the other, "is
a solid, ponderable body, which I can handle, examine, and analyse, and
it comes to me," continued the eminent scientist, extending his arms and
looking round him, then directing his gaze upwards, his eye dilating
with the grandeur of the discovery,--"it comes to me direct from the
Cosmos!"

CHAPTER II.

There was a chuckle from behind the neighbouring hedge, and, as the
Philosopher returned to his sanctum to write a paper on the "Spectra of
Meteorites," a small boy stepped cautiously out into the road, and
hurried down the lane.

"Ooray!" muttered the small boy to himself; "the old gent don't know my
name. What did he say about 'Crismas'?" And he vanished into space.

CHAPTER III.

The Philosopher, with aching head, sat down to write, and penned these
words,--

"_Cosmical space is filled with meteorites of all sizes, flying about
with immense velocities in all directions._"

"Good Heavens! or, rather, Bad Heavens!" exclaimed a simple-minded
visitor, to whom he read this statement, "why, 'Cosmical space' must be
uncommonly like a proclaimed district in Ireland, or Trafalgar Square
during a Socialist riot."

The Philosopher perceived that he was not in the presence of a
sympathetic mind, and regretted having invited the visitor to lunch.

CHAPTER IV.

After lunch, Mr. NOMAN LUCKIER resumed his work. The simple-minded
friend followed him into his study, seated himself in the most
comfortable chair, lit a cigar, and produced from his pocket a
handy-volume edition of _Pickwick_. Oddly enough he commenced reading
the concluding portion of Chapter XXXVIII. of that immortal work, which
records how an elderly gentleman of scientific attainments suddenly
observed certain extraordinary and wonderful phenomena, which he
immediately concluded "it had been reserved for him alone to discover,
and which he should immortalise his name by chronicling for the benefit
of posterity. Full of this idea, the scientific gentleman seized the
pen" and began writing "sundry notes of these unparalleled appearances
... which were to form the data of a voluminous treatise of great
research and deep learning, which should astonish all the atmospherical
wiseacres that ever drew breath in any part of the civilised globe."
Subsequently, after a sharp shock which "stunned him for a full quarter
of an hour," produced by _Sam Weller's_ fist, the scientific gentleman
retired to his library, and there composed a masterly treatise which
"delighted all the Scientific Associations beyond measure, and caused
him to be considered a light of science ever afterwards."

The simple-minded friend, having finished his cigar, replaced _Pickwick_
in his pocket, and, smiling gently, stole out of the study on tiptoe,
leaving Mr. NOMAN LUCKIER profoundly absorbed in his "Preliminary
Notes."

The boy, whose name was not COSMOS, is still at large,--and so is
COSMOS, very much so.

       *       *       *       *       *

A LITERARY FIND.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

A very intelligent threadbare man, evidently something of a scholar, has
just put me in possession of a manuscript of incalculable importance. It
is a drama called _Piccoviccius_, evidently of the Elizabethan era,
though brought into harmony with modern diction and orthography by a
later hand. A careful perusal of this priceless survival makes it
certain that SHAKSPEARE was not only familiar with it, but that he drew
very largely from it even to "cribbing" the names of many of the
characters bodily. This is not so remarkable, considering the very
slight right SHAKSPEARE has, in the opinion of the best critics, to the
authorship of his own plays, as the fact that DICKENS also had studied
Piccoviccius, and founded upon it his _Pickwick Papers_, with an
effrontery almost worthy of the Swan of Avon himself. Here is a
slightly-edited selection from the First Act, so your readers can judge
for themselves.

                 Yours, bursting with importance,      RODERICK TWEDDLE.

P.S.--I have just founded a Piccoviccius Society. The subscription is £2
2s., paid in advance. Members can read their own papers at any time, and
have them printed, at a reduced price, in our "Transactions."

SCENE FROM ACT I.--_Romeo's Garden in Kent._ ROMEO, BERNARDO.

  _Ber._ News, news, my ROMEO! The world's upso down.
    Duke PICCOVICCIUS hath broke the law,
    Is under guard, and will be banished.

  _Rom._ Banished? Great Heaven!

  _Ber._                          Banished, certainly
    As eggs dissemble not their property.

  _Rom._ But why, how, when and where? What did the Duke?

  _Ber._ Thou knowest the scheme he long had pondered on,
    To go among his people, like themselves,
    As went through Bagdad's streets the Caliph wise.

  _Rom._ Yea, I remember; and the hour arrived,
    When, having delegated his main pow'rs
    To JINGULUS, and the Exchequer's charge
    To careful DODSON and to subtle FOGG,
    He, with no rites of State observ'd, set forth
    With TUPMAN, SNODGRASS, WINKLE, in his train;
    TUPMAN, who to experience in love
    Still superadds the ardour of the boy;
    SNODGRASS, the poet-treasurer of thought,
    And singer of an unexpressive song,
    And WINKLE, Nimrod's peer. These four set forth,
    Due to return the seventh day from hence;
    But I that selfsame hour came hitherward,
    And since have heard no news of Court at all.

  _Ber._ Thus then I briefly tell thee what hath pass'd.
    There came last week with 'plaining to the Court
    A comely widow, who made oath that one
    Who sojourned as a lodger in her house
    Had promised marriage, but had gone away;
    Left her, and left his promise unfulfill'd.
    Guided by her, the officers had gone
    To seize the culprit, and had found 'twas none
    But PICCOVICCIUS, whom she claim'd with tears.
    So he and those three lords were strait convey'd
    Unto the Court, and put to interrogatories,
    When this preliminary was advanced:--
    The Duke had lodging in BARDELLA'S house--
    So is the widow named; and on a day
    Came these lords, usher'd by BARDELLA'S son,
    Unto his chamber, but on the threshold stay'd
    Still as LOT'S wife, in mere astonishment.
    For there their staid and reverend leader stood,
    Silent as they, supporting in his arms
    The buxom widow, in a swoon of bliss.
    Thus had they stood, confounded and amazed,
    Till life returning gave BARDELLA speech,
    But that the urchin, in a filial frenzy,
    Butting like petulant kid, assailed the Duke,
    And with the puissance of his puny arms
    Avenged imagined injury. Then they,
    Roused by the pious howlings of the boy
    And agonised appeals of whom he smote,
    Bore off the pigmy valour, and the mother,
    Reviving, led away. The Duke averr'd
    That, breaking to her of his new-found wish
    To take into his service one WELLERIUS,
    A shrewd and faithful henchman, she at once
    Through rapid stages of affection ran,
    And threw herself, in fine, upon his neck,
    And thus was found, he speechless with surprise,
    They, after, silent, striving to believe.

  _Rom._ It is a tale incredible and bald.

  _Ber._ Why so thought many; but this JINGULUS
    Is all compassion for the widow's case.
    DODSON and FOGG, his seconds in the realm,
    Albeit unuséd to the melting mood,
    Do keep turned on, sans intermission,
    Salt pity's main. The people whisper change,
    And what they whisper they are fain to make.
    The nobles huddle in uncertainty,
    Like sheep that meet a cart, the dog behind.
    On the Rialto, ere I left this morning,
    The hoarse-voiced makers of the books, whose leaves
    Are I. O. U.'s to ruin, vainly laid
    Long odds upon the widow.

  _Rom._'Tis not death?

  _Ber._ Nay, only banishment. Whoever breaks
    A promise made to wed, to exile goes.

  _Rom._ Will not the widow take a forfeiture?

  _Ber._ It cannot be. There is no power in Brentford
    Can alter a decree established.
    Besides, the very object of the law
    Is to prevent the payment of a price
    For feelings wounded. The stern punishment
    Makes flighty wooers careful, and restrains
    The plots of scheming spinsters, who derive
    No personal advantage from their suit.

  _Rom._ Then am I shent!

But here the plot thickens, and we are plunged into the _Two Gentlemen
of Verona_, _Hamlet_, _As You Like It,_ and _A Winter's Tale_, with a
strong infusion of Dingley Dell, and the Fat Boy floating round, like a
materialised _Ariel_. I ask, _Who are the plagiarists?_ R. T.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:] 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.




       *       *       *       *       *




Transcriber's note:

Alternative spellings were retained.

Punctuation was made consistent.





*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI, VOL. 93, NOVEMBER 26, 1887 ***


    

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