*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13503 ***

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 101.



August 29, 1891.




STORICULES.

I.--THE SUICIDE-ADVERTISEMENT.

[Illustration]

As you stood before the automatic machine on the station platform,
making an imbecile choice between a packet of gooseberry nougat and
a slab of the gum caramel, you could not help seeing on the level of
your eye this notice:--"BLACKING-CREAM. ASK FOR HIGLINSON'S, AND TAKE
NO OTHER."

Similar announcements met you on every hoarding, in almost every paper
and magazine, on every omnibus. Neat little packets of HIGLINSON's
Blacking-cream were dropped through your letter-box, with a printed
request that you would honour Mr. HIGLINSON by trying it. Leaflets
were handed you in the street to tell you what public analysts
said about it, and in what great hotels it was the only blacking
used. Importunity pays. Sooner or later you bought HIGLINSON's
Blacking-cream. You then found out that it was just about as good as
any other, and went on buying it.

In one way this was very good for Mr. HIGLINSON, because he became
very rich; in other ways it was not so good for him. For a long time
he had nothing to do with public life; the public never thought about
his existence; to the public he was not a man at all--he was only
part of the name of the stuff they used for their boots. If he had
introduced himself to a stranger, giving the name of HIGLINSON, it is
probable that the stranger would have remarked jocularly, "No relation
to the Blacking-cream, I presume?" HIGLINSON knew this, and it pained
him deeply, for he was a sensitive man.

Because he was sensitive and felt things so much, he wrote a volume of
very melancholy verses. He was unmarried and lonely, and he wanted to
lead a high life. He said as much in his verses. But what comes well
from Sir GALAHAD comes ill from the proprietor of a Blacking-cream;
and--from idiotic notions about pluck and honesty--he had put his own
name to his book. Unfortunately, those who feel much are not always
those who can express much; and HIGLINSON could not express anything.
So critics with a light mind had a very fine time with these
verses. They quoted them, with the prefatory remark:--"The cream
of the collection--perhaps we might say the Blacking-cream of the
collection--is the following," and they wound up their criticism
with saying that the book must have been simply published as an
advertisement. Mr. HIGLINSON could hardly have been mad enough to
have printed such stuff from any other motive.

Of course HIGLINSON should have changed his name, and should have
married. But the idiotic notions about pluck prevented him from
changing his name; and he would not marry a woman who accepted him
from only mercenary motives. He was so unattractive that he did
not think it possible a woman would marry him for any other reason.
However, he could not always be superintending the manufacture of
Blacking-cream; and it was obvious to him that he could publish no
more verses. So he devoted himself to philanthropy in a quiet and
unostentatious way. He attempted the reclamation of street-arabs.
He worked among them. He spent vast sums on providing education,
training, and decent pleasures for them. A man who wrote for _The
Scalpel_ found him out at last. Next day there was a pretty little
paragraph in _The Scalpel_, showing Mr. HIGLINSON up, and suggesting
that this was a clever attempt to get the London shoe-blacks to use
HIGLINSON's Blacking-cream. The Blacking-cream, by the way, had never
been advertised in _The Scalpel_.

HIGLINSON was furious. He spent a little money in finding out who had
written the paragraph. Then he walked up to the writer in a public
street, with raised walking-stick. "Now, Sir," he said, "you shall
have the thrashing that you deserve."

[Illustration]

But it happened that the writer was physically superior to HIGLINSON;
so it was the writer who did the thrashing, and HIGLINSON who took it.
Next day, _The Scalpel_ amused itself with HIGLINSON to the extent of
half a column. The notice was headed:--

  "MR. HIGLINSON ADVERTISES HIMSELF AGAIN."

Other newspapers also amused themselves, and HIGLINSON became
notorious. The Blacking-cream sold better than ever, and brought him
enormous profits. But if he attempted to spend those profits on any
object, good or bad, it was always insisted that he was simply doing
it for advertisement. The public became interested in HIGLINSON; and
untrue stories about his private life appeared freely in personal
columns. He was rich enough now to have relinquished his business, but
those idiotic notions about pluck prevented him from doing this. He
meant to go through with it, and to make the public believe in him
just as much as they believed in the Blacking-cream. He found about
this time someone who did believe in him; he began to change his views
about marriage; he was to some extent consoled.

He was passing over the bridge one night, and had just bought
an evening paper. His own name caught his eye. It was the usual
paragraph, not more hateful to him than others that had appeared, as
far as he himself was concerned; but her name was in it as well, and
he imagined to himself just how she would feel when she read it. He
walked on a few paces, and then his pluck all vanished suddenly, as
if it had been blown away into space, and it did not seem to be worth
while to stop in such a world any longer.

The jury returned the usual verdict; but _The Scalpel_ did not
hesitate to hint that this suicide had simply been intended as an
advertisement, and that HIGLINSON had always supposed that his rescue
would be a certainty.

He might have saved himself all this, of course, by a few full-page
advertisements in _The Scalpel_. But then he had those idiotic notions
about pluck, and he was reluctant to bribe his enemies. It is a very
dangerous thing to have notions about anything.

       *       *       *       *       *

WANTED, A WORD-SLAYER.

  _Fin de Siècle!_ Ah, that phrase, though taste spurn it, I
  Fear, threatens staying with us to eternity.
                  Who _will_ deliver
                  Our nerves, all a-quiver,
  From that pest-term, and its fellow "modernity"?

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: AT THE DOOR; OR, PATERFAMILIAS AND THE YOUNG SPARK.

_Electric Light_. "WHAT, WON'T YOU LET ME IN--A DEAR LITTLE CHAP LIKE
ME?"

_Householder_. "AH! YOU'RE A LITTLE TOO DEAR FOR ME--AT PRESENT."]

       *       *       *       *       *

AT THE DOOR; OR, PATERFAMILIAS AND THE YOUNG SPARK.

(_AN ELECTRICAL ECLOGUE._)

    ["The cost is still heavy, no doubt, and the electric light
    still stands in the category of luxuries which are almost
    beyond the reach of average middle-class incomes."--_The
    "Times" on the growth of Electric Lighting in London._]

_ELECTRIC SPRITE._

  Old boy, let me in! Come, now, don't you be stupid!
    Why stand at your door in that dubious way?
  Like the classical girl who was called on by Cupid,
    You seem half alarmed at the thought of my stay.
  With meanings of mischief _my_ mind is not laden;
    Be sure, my dear friend, that _I_ shall not sell _you_,
  As the artful young archer-god did the poor maiden,
    Who let him in only his visit to rue.
  I hope you've not listened to enemies' strictures,
    They've warned you, perhaps, against letting me pass,
  _I_ shan't soil your ceiling, _I_ shan't spoil your pictures,
    Or make nasty smells like that dirty imp, Gas!
  You're prejudiced clearly, and that is a pity,
    Why, bless you, I'm spreading all over the place!
  My spark is pervading the whole of the City;
    The dingy old Gas-flame must soon hide its face.
  I'm brilliant, and clean, and delightfully larky;
    Just look at my glow and examine my arc!
  _Fwizz!_ How's _that_ for high, and for vivid and sparky!
    I obviate dirt, and I dissipate dark.
  You just let me in; the result you'll be charmed at.
    Objections, Old Boy, are all fiddle-de-dee.
  Come now! I'm sure you cannot be alarmed at
           A dear little chap like me!

_PATERFAMILIAS._

  A dear little chap! Very true; but I'm thinking
    That you're just a little _too_ "dear" for me--yet!
  Ah, yes! it's no use to stand smiling and winking;
    I like the bright ways of you, youngster,--you bet!
  You're white as the moon, and as spry as a rocket;
    No doubt all you say in self-praise is quite true,
  But you see, boy, I _must_ keep an eye to my pocket!
    The Renters and Raters so put on the screw,
  That a "middle-class income" won't stand much more squeezing,
    And Forty or Fifty Pounds more in the year.
  For _your_ bright companionship, albeit pleasing,
    Would come pretty stiff, my boy. _That_ is my fear.
  Just cheapen yourself, in supply and in fitting,
    To something that fits with my limited "screw,"
  And you will not find me shrink long from admitting
            A dear little chap like you!

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

[Illustration]

The Baron's Assistant Reader reports as follows to his chief--If you
want a really refreshing book, a book whose piquant savour and quaint
originality of style are good for jaded brains, buy and read _In a
Canadian Canoe_ by BARRY PAIN, the sixth volume of the Whitefriars
Library of Wit and Humour (HENRY & Co.). Most of the stories and, I
think, the best that go to make up this delightful volume have already
appeared in _The Granta_, a Cambridge magazine, which London papers
are accustomed to speak of as "our sprightly contemporary." They now
seek and are sure to obtain a wider public and a more extended fame.
There is in these stories a curious mixture of humour, insight and
pathos, with here and there a dash of grimness and a sprinkling of
that charming irrelevancy which is of the essence of true humour.
Occasionally Mr. BARRY PAIN wings a shaft against the comfortably
brutal doctrines of the average and orthodox householder, male or
female. But on these occasions he uses the classical fables and the
pagan deities as his bow, and the twang of his shot cannot offend
those who play the part of target and are pierced. Read the four
stories from the "Entertainments of Kapnides" in the "Canadian Canoe"
series, or, "An Hour of Death," "The Last Straw," and "Number One
Hundred and Three" in "The Nine Muses Minus One," and you will see
at once what I mean. Then for run-away, topsy-turvey wit I think I
would back "The Story of the Tin Heart" and "The Camel who never
got Started," against most stories I know. Mr. BARRY PAIN's stories
sometimes make me feel as if I had got hold of the key-handle of
things which have hitherto been puzzles to me. I turn it, open the
door ever so little to peep inside, and before I have taken a good
square look, Mr. BARRY PAIN slams the door in my face, and I think I
can hear him laughing on the other side at the bruise on my forehead.
That's not kind treatment, but it promotes curiosity. As for "The
Celestial Grocery," I can only say of it that it is in its way
a masterpiece. Mr. PAIN sometimes gives way to a touch or two of
sentiment, but he abstains from sloppiness. His book is not only witty
and humorous but fresh and original in style. It is admirably written.
His prose is good,--which is moderate praise, striking a balance
between the _pros_ and _cons_ of criticism. _Prosit!_ To all
holiday-makers who like quaintness and fun touched with pathos and
refinement, I say again, buy and read _In a Canadian Canoe_.

BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE HEIGHT OF FASTIDIOUSNESS.

_Elder Brother_. "HULLO, FRANK! HOW IS IT YOU'RE NOT IN MOURNING FOR
POOR AUNT GRACE?"

_Frank_. "AH--WELL--FACT IS, I TRIED ON SIXTEEN OR SEVENTEEN
HAT-BANDS, AND COULDN'T _GET ONE TO SUIT ME!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"PUGS" AND "MUGS."

(_A QUOTATION WITH A COMMENT._)

  "The faithful study of the fistic art
  From mawkish softness guards the British heart."
  The study of the betting British curse
  From swift depletion guards the British purse!

       *       *       *       *       *

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

NO. IV.

    SCENE--_The Wiertz Museum at Brussels, a large and
    well-lighted gallery containing the works of the celebrated
    Belgian, which are reducing a limited number of spectators to
    the usual degree of stupefaction. Enter CULCHARD, who seats
    himself on a central ottoman._

_Culchard_ (_to himself_). If PODBURY won't come down to breakfast
at a decent hour, he can't complain if I--I wonder if he heard Miss
TROTTER say she was thinking of coming here this morning. Somehow,
I _should_ like that girl to have a more correct comprehension of
my character. I don't so much mind her thinking me fastidious and
exclusive. I daresay I _am_--but I _do_ object to being made out a
hopeless melancholiac! (_He looks round the walls._) So these are
WIERTZ's masterpieces, eh? h'm. Strenuous, vigorous,--a trifle
crude, perhaps. Didn't he refuse all offers for his pictures during
his lifetime? Hardly think he could have been overwhelmed with
applications for the one opposite. (_He regards an enormous canvas,
representing a brawny and gigantic Achilles perforating a brown Trojan
with a small mast._) Not a dining-room picture. Still, I like his
independence--work up rather well in a sonnet. Let me see. (_He takes
out note-book and scribbles._) "He scorned to ply his sombre brush
for hire." Now if I read that to PODBURY, he'd pretend to think I was
treating of a Shoe-black on strike! PODBURY is utterly deficient in
reverence.

[Illustration: "I presume, though, he slept bad, nights."]

    [_Close by is a party of three Tourists--a Father and Mother,
    and a Daughter; who is reading to them aloud from the somewhat
    effusive Official Catalogue; the Education of all three
    appears to have been elementary._

_The Daughter_ (_spelling out the words laboriously_). "I could
not 'elp fancying this was the artist's por-portrait? portent? no,
_protest_ against des-des (_recklessly_) despoticism, and tyranny,
but I see it is only--Por-Porliffymus fasting upon the companions of
Ulyces."

_Her Male Parent._ Do it tell yer what that there big arm and leg be
a' doin' of in the middle of 'em?

_Daughter_ (_stolidly_). Don't you be in a nurry, Father
(_continuing_) "in the midst of some colonial? _That_ ain't
it--_colossial_ animiles fanatically--fan-tasty-cally--" why, this
catalogue is 'alf foreign!

_Female P._ Never mind, say Peterborough at the 'ard words--_we_
shan't be none the wiser!

_Daughter_. "The sime-boalic ram the 'ero is to Peterborough and leave
'is Peterborough grotter--"

_Male P._ That'll do--read what it says about the next one.

_Daughter_ (_reading_). "The Forge of Vulkin. Words are useless 'ere.
Before sech a picture one can but look, and think, and enjoy it."

_Both Parents_ (_impressed_). Lor!

    [_They smack their lips reverently; Miss TROTTER enters the
    Gallery._

_Culch._ (_rising and going to meet her_). Good morning, Miss TROTTER.
We--ah--meet again.

_Miss T._ That's an undeniable fact. I've left Poppa outside. Poppa
restricts himself to exteriors wherever he can--says he doesn't seem
to mix up his impressions so much that way. But you're alone, too.
Where've you hitched your friend up?

_Culch._ My friend did not rise sufficiently early to accompany me.
And, by the way, Miss TROTTER, I should like to take this opportunity
of disabusing your mind of the--er--totally false impression--

_Miss T._ Oh, _that's_ all right. I told him he needn't try to give me
away, for I could see you weren't _that_ kind of man!

_Culch._ (_gratefully_). Your instinct was correct--perfectly
correct. When you say "that kind of man," I presume you refer to the
description my--er--friend considered it humorous to give of me as an
unsociable hypochondriac?

_Miss T._ Well, no; he didn't say just that. He represented you as
one of the fonniest persons alive; said you told stories which tickled
folks to death almost.

_Culch._ (_annoyed_). Really, this is _most_ unpardonable of Mr.
PODBURY! To have such odious calumnies circulated about one behind
one's back is simply too--I do _not_ aspire to--ah--to tickle folks to
death!

_Miss T._ (_soothingly_). Well, I guess there's no harm done. I didn't
feel like being in any imminent danger of perishing that way in your
society. You're real high-toned and ever so improving, and that's
better than tickling; every time. And I want you to show me round
this collection and give me a few notions. Seems to me there was
considerable sand in WIERTZ; sort of spread himself around a good
deal, didn't he? I presume, though, he slept bad, nights.

(_She makes the tour of the Gallery, accompanied by CULCHARD, who
admires her, against his better judgment, more and more._) ... I
declare if that isn't your friend Mr. PODBURY just come in! I believe
I'll have to give you up to him.

_Culch._ (_eagerly_). I beg you will not think it necessary. He--he
has a guide already. _He_ does not require my services. And, to
be plain, my poor friend--though, an excellent fellow according to
his--ah--lights--is a companion whose society occasionally amounts to
a positive infliction.

_Miss T._ Well, I find him too chinny myself, times. Likely he won't
notice us if we don't seem to be aware of him.

    [_They continue to inspect the canvases._

_A Belgian Guide_ (_who has made an easy capture of PODBURY at the
Hotel entrance_). Hier now is a shdrainch beecture. "De toughts and
veesions of a saivered haid." Fairsst meenut afder degapitation; de
zagonde; de tirt. Hier de haid tink dey vant to poot him in a goffin.
Dere are _two_ haids--von goes op, de udder down. Haf you got de two?
Nod yet? No?

_Podbury_ (_shaking his head sagaciously_). Oh, ah, yes. Capital! Rum
subject, though.

_Guide._ Yais, vary magnifique, vary grandt, and--and rom also! Dees
von rebresents Napoleon in hail. De modders show him de laigs and
ahums of dair sons keeled in de vars, and invide him to drink a cop of
bloodt.

_Podb._ Ha, cheery picture that!

_Guide._ Cheery, oh, yais! Now com and beep troo dis 'ole. (_PODBURY
obeys with docility._) You see? A Mad Voman cooking her shildt in a
gettle. Hier again, dey haf puried a man viz de golera pefore he is
daid, he dries to purst de goffin, you see only de handt shdicking
oudt.

_Podb._ The old Johnny seems full of pretty fancies. (_He looks
through another peephole._) Girl looking at skeleton. Any other
domestic subjects on view? (_He suddenly sees Miss TROTTER and
CULCHARD with their backs to him._) Hal--lo, this _is_ luck! I must
go to the rescue, or that beggar CULCHARD will bore her to death in
no time. (_To Guide._) Here, hold on a minute. (_Crosses to CULCHARD,
followed by Guide._) How d'ye do, Miss TROTTER? Doing the Wild
Wiertz Show, I see. Ah, CULCHARD, why didn't you tell me you were
going--might have gone together. I say, I've got a guide here.

_Culch._ (_drily_). So we perceive--a very sensible plan, no doubt, in
some cases, my dear fellow.

_Podb._ (_to Miss T._). Do come and listen to him, most intelligent
chap--great fun. Mr. CULCHARD is above that sort of thing, I dare say.

_Guide._ Your vriendts laike to choin, yais? Same for tree as for von.
I exblain all de beecture.

_Miss T._ You're vurry obliging, Mr. PODBURY, but your friend is
explaining it all just splendidly.

_Podb._ (_piqued_). Perhaps I had better dismiss my chap, and take on
CULCHARD, too?

_Miss T._ No, I'd just hate to have you do that. Keep on going round.
You mustn't mind us, indeed!

_Podb._ Oh, if you'd rather! (_Gloomily, to Guide._) They can do
without _us_. Just show me something more in the blood-and-thunder
line--no, at the other end of the room. [_They withdraw._

_Guide._ Hier is von dat is vary amusant. You know de schtory of de
Tree Vishes, eh?

_Podb._ _Macbeth_, eh? oh, I see--_Wishes!_ No, what was that?

_Guide_. I dell it you. (_He tells it; PODBURY falls into gloomy
abstraction._) ... And inschdantly she vind a grade pig soasage at de
end of her noâse. So de ole voman--

_Podb._ (_wearily_). Oh, I've heard all _that_. What's this one about?

_Guide_. Dis is galled "De lasht Gannon." You see de vigure of
Ceevilization flodderin op viz de vings, vile Brogress preaks asonder
de lasht gon, and in a gorner a Genius purns de vrontier bost.

_Podb._ (_captiously_). What's he doing _that_ for?

_Guide_. I tont know. I subbose begause dey are bosts, or
(_dubiously_) begause he is a Genius.

_Culch._ (_touching PODBURY's arm as he goes out_). Oh--er--PODBURY,
I'm off. Going to lunch somewhere with the--ah--TROTTERS. See you at
_table d'hôte_ this evening, I suppose? Good-bye.

_Podb._ (_savagely_). Oh, ta-ta! (_To himself_.). And that's the
fellow who said he wanted to keep out of making friends! How the
dickens am I going to get through the time by myself? (_To Guide_.)
Here, that's enough for one day. When I want you again, I'll let you
know.

    [_He dismisses him, and stands forlornly in the Gallery, while
    the Imperfectly Educated Daughter goes on spelling out the
    Catalogue for her Parents' edification._

       *       *       *       *       *

A STORY--OUT OF SEASON.

[Illustration]

  So she's married to _him_! Whilst I travelled and wandered
    Far away, for the lack of aught better to do;
  Whilst my time and my money I recklessly squandered
    In a hunt for big game--she was doing it too!
  And I am not surprised he has fallen a prey to
    The graces and wiles of a maiden so fair;
  I must take a back seat as I humbly give way to
    The Earl and the Countess of Hanover Square.

  What a stroke of good luck! For, like little Jack Horner,
    She put in her finger and pulled out a plum;
  Yet there once was a time when _we_ sat in a corner--
    AMARYLLIS and I--though her mother looked glum.
  If I do not forget, it took place in December,
    But I recollect better one evening in June,
  And, for all that has happened, I like to remember
    What we whispered and said by the light of the moon.

  But a truce to such thoughts, she has married another,
    I must tidy away all the memories of yore.
  There's a smile on the face of her match-making mother,
    And her family rejoice as they ne'er have before.
  It has happened. Her mother, I know, always said it
    Would prove to be so with her beautiful girl,
  And the fair AMARYLLIS has done herself credit
    Now she's married the catch of the season--an Earl.

  What she did, after all, was perhaps for the best meant.
    She may even be fond of her Earl--who can tell?
  In the business of Life she has made her investment,
    Which I trust most sincerely she will find pay her well.
  And as for myself my ambition just _nil_ is,
    With my pipe and my dog I shall stay on the shelf,
  Though allow me to tell you, my dear AMARYLLIS,
    I'd have made you an excellent husband myself.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: What will he do with it?]

A PUZZLER, FOR EVEN SIR ANDR-W CL-RK, BART. M.D.--Case of dyspepsia.
What ought to be prescribed for a patient suffering from severe
indigestion, caused _by having eaten his own words?_ Perhaps one of
the most distinguished members of the Medical Congress, possessing
a great experience among Cabinet Ministers and other Parliamentary
celebrities, will oblige with "a solution"? And this is a perfectly
serious question, although it certainly sounds as if it were only
intended for a Roose.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. CLIP'S APPEAL.

    [The Hairdressers' Early Closing Association of London
    (whose Central Office is at 6, Swallow Street, Piccadilly,
    W., and whose President is Mr. W.J. REED, and Hon. Sec., Mr.
    A.M. SUTTON), has for object "to secure and maintain one
    early-closing day per week, suitable to the neighbourhood,
    and to generally assist in obtaining time for rest and
    recreation, and promote better and healthier conditions for
    hairdressers."]

[Illustration: HAIR AND HEXERCISE; OR, TAKING THE HAIR ON A 'OLE
'OLIDAY.]

  Dear BOB,--There's a stir in our noble Profession.
    The hope of the Hairdresser, silent so long,
  At last, like most others, is finding expression.
    We've started, dear BOB, and are now going strong.
  Early Closing's our object, which means that on _one_ day
    We want to shut up shops and scissors at five!
  Perhaps Saturday's best, BOB, as coming next Sunday--
    Don't seem asking _much_, if they'd keep us alive.

  You cannot imagine how grinding our trade is--
    Long hours, and long waits, BOB, when custom is slack!
  When the premises hold one old gent and two ladies,
    'Tis hard for twelve chaps to be kept on the rack.
  To knock off at five on a Saturday eases
    Our week's work a little. One evening in six
  Ain't more than the Public can spare--if it pleases--
    If only its hours 'twill conveniently fix.

  When a swell wants a shave, a shampoo, or a clipping,
    He likes to drop in at _his_ pleasure, no doubt;
  But surely he'd not keep us scraping and snipping
    To save him from being a trifle put out!
  If he'll but get fixed before five on a Saturday,
    We poor Hairdressers may get just a chance
  Of an hour or two's pleasure or rest on the latter day;
    Prospect to make many dreary eyes dance!

  And yet some object to this small "Early Closing,"
    I wish they could know what it is to chop, chop,
  When your feet are one ache and your eyes drawn to dozing
    And you're sick of the sight and the smell of the shop!
  When a whiff from the meadows appears to come stealing
    Above all our washes, and powders, and soaps;
  And the whirr of the brush which revolves near the ceiling
    Seems pain to our ears and seems death to our hopes!

  True, most of the Masters will yield to our yearnings,
    A lesson I think to the few who stand out!
  I wager the change won't diminish their earnings,
    W. REED and A. SUTTON know what they're about,--
  Our President, BOB, and our Hon. Sec. Address 'em
    At "fair Piccadilly," 6, Swallow Street, W.
  Hairdressers' Assistants unitedly bless 'em,
    If you, BOB, or others _can_ help us, I'll trouble you!

  'Tis long, my dear BOB, since I sent you a letter,
    And this you'll admit is a practical one.
  We Hairdressers wish our condition to better,
    And get our fair share of rest, leisure, and fun.
  One Five o' Clock Close every week is our plea, BOB,
    Not much for the slaves of scrape-scrape and snip-snip!
  The fairness of it I'm convinced you will see, BOB,
    And so should the world, says

CARACTACUS CLIP.

    [_Mr. Punch_, who knows how much his own personal comfort is
    dependent upon the adroit ministrations of the "Sons of
    the Shears," cordially seconds the appeal of his old
    Correspondent.]

       *       *       *       *       *

A CASE OF FRENCH LEAVE.--The Gallic Fleet have gone to Cherbourg--as
if they had not had enough "cheers" before leaving England!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: DIFFERENCE OF OPINION.

_Jones_ (_reading aloud_). "'A TRUE, GOOD, NOBLE WOMAN IS EVER READY
TO MAKE HERSELF A DOOR-MAT FOR THE MAN SHE LOVES!'... AH, DOLLY,
_THOSE_ ARE THE WOMEN WHO MAKE THE BEST WIVES!"

_Mrs. J._ (_who is not of this type_). "YES, DEAR--AND THE _WORST
HUSBANDS!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. PUNCH'S ANTI-LABOUR CONGRESS.

_MR. PUNCH (IN A MARINE LOTOS-LAND) SINGS HIS SEA-SIDE VERSION OF THE
LAUREATE'S LOVELY "CHORIC SONG."_

I.

  There is a slumber here that softlier falls
  Than forty-winks where dull, dull Bills they pass;
  Oft have I drowsed within those dreary walls,
  Where brays the pertinacious party ass.
  Here sleep more gently on the spirit lies
  Than where the SPEAKER tells the Noes and Ayes.
  The wave-wash brings sweet sleep down, from the summer skies,
  Here laps the azure deep,
  And through the weed the small crabs creep,
  And safe from prigs who plague and nymphs who peep,
  Sagacious _Punch_ reclines and woos benignant sleep.

II.

  Why are we weighed upon with Politics,
  And, utterly fatigued by "bores" and "sticks,"
  While all things else have rest from weariness?
  All things have rest: why should we toil alone,
  We only toil, who are "_such_ clever things!"
  And make perpetual moan,
  Still from one "Question" to another thrown?
  Gulls, even, fold their wings,
  And cease their wanderings,
  Watching our brows which slumber's holy balm
  Bathes gently, whilst the inner spirit sings
  "There is no joy but calm!"
  Why should _Punch_ only toil, the top and crown of things?

III.

  How sweet it were, dodging the urban stream,
  With half-shut eyes ever to seem
  Falling asleep in a half dream!
  To dream and dream that yonder glittering light
  No more shall top the tall Clock Tower's height;
  To hear no more the party speech;
  Eating the Lotos day by day,
  To watch the crisping ripples on the beach;
  (No, no, _not_ HICKS! Thank heaven, he's far away!)
  To lend one's mind and fancy wholly
  Unto the influence of the calmly jolly;
  Forgetful, whilst the salt breeze round one rustles;
  Of all the clamorous Congresses of Brussels,
  Of all the spouting M.P.'s party tussles,
  Of all the noisy votaries of CARL MARX;
  Of all save slumber and Unmitigated Larks!

IV.

  Dear are the memories of our wedded lives,
  Dear also are the outfits of our wives,
  And their huge trunks: but this is a sweet change!
  For surely now our household hearths are cold,
  Charwomen prowl thereby: our halls look strange,
  Our suites are swathed like ghosts. Here all is joy,
  And, by the stirless silence rendered bold,
  The very gulls stand round with furléd wings.
  What do _you_ think of it, TOBY, my boy?
  The Session's Bills are half-forgotten things.
  Is there discussion in our little Isle?
  Let Parties broken so remain.
  Factions are hard to reconcile:
  Prate not of Law and Order--by the main!
  There _is_ a fussiness worse than death
  Trouble on trouble, pain on pain,
  Lost labour, and sheer waste of breath,
  Sore task to hearts dead beat by many wars,
  And ears grown dumb with listening to loud party jars.

V.

  But propt on sand and pebbles rolly-olly
  How sweet (while briny breezes fan us lowly)
  With half-dropt eyelids still,
  Beneath a boat-side tarry, coally,
  To watch the long white breakers drawing slowly
  Up to the curling turn and foamy spill--
  To hear far-off the wheezy Town-Crier calling,
  "Oh, yes! Oh, yes!" Truly, TOBIAS mine,
  This _solitude à deux_ is most divine;
  A Congress we--of Two; where no outfalling
  Is possible. Our Anti-Labour line
  Is wordlessly prolonged, stretched out beside the brine.

VI.

  Such Lotos-eating all at times must seek!
  The Lotos blows by many an English creek.
  _Punch_ is no "mild-eyed melancholy" coon,
  Born, like the Laureate's islanders, to moon
  In lands in which 'tis always afternoon.
  No, TOBY, no! Yet stretch your tawny muzzle
  Upon these tawny sands! We will not puzzle,
  For a few happy hours, our weary pates
  With Burning Questions or with Dull Debates.
  We have had enough of Measures, and of Motions, we,
  "Ayes" to starboard, "Noes" to larboard (in the language of the sea),
  Where the wallowing SEYMORE spouted like a whale, and COBB made free.
  Let us take our solemn davy, TOBY, for a space
  (_Punch_ perceives complete approval in that doggish face)--
  Let us take our davy, TOBY--_for a time_, now mind!--
  In this briny Lotos Land to live and lie reclined,
  On the sands like chums together, careless of mankind!

    [_Sleeps._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MR. PUNCH'S ANTI-LABOUR CONGRESS.]

       *       *       *       *       *

SOME CIRCULAR NOTES.

CHAPTER II.

_ON TOUR--RESTAURATION--METHOD--RAPID
ACT--PATRIOTISM--CHORUS--DINNER--FORWARDS--ENTRÉE--EXIT--DESTINATION._

With DAUBINET I soon acquire the careless habit of speaking any French
that comes into my head, irrespective of grammar, genders, or idioms.
If he doesn't understand it in French he will do so in English, or
_vice versâ_. On this mutual comprehension system we get along as
easily as the express does, and as easily as the boat does too,
to-day,--for we are in luck, the weather is delicious and the sea
propitious,--and so we arrive hungry and happy at the excellent buffet
at the Calais Station, the praises of which I have sung more than once
in my lifetime.

[Illustration]

Far be it from me to draw comparisons, but I if want to start well and
wisely for the Continong, give me the short sea-passage _viâ_ Dover
and the excellent restauration at Calais, with a good twenty-five
minutes allowed for refreshment; _though why this interval shouldn't
be extended to three-quarters of an hour, and less time occupied on
the journey to Paris, I have never yet been able to ascertain._ In the
not very dim and distant future no doubt it will be so. I record the
above observation in italics, in order to attract the attention of all
whom it may and does and ought to concern. Perhaps they'll kindly see
to it.

Our _déjeuner_ at Calais is as good as it usually is at that
haven of Restauration. After the buffeting of the waves, how
sweet is the _buffet_ of the shore. I sit down at once, as an old
Continental-travelling hand, tell the waiter immediately what I
am going to take, and forthwith it is brought; then, in advance,
I command the coffee, and have my French money all ready in an
outside-pocket, so that there shall be no unnecessary delay. All
station-feeding is a fearsome pastime. You are never quite sure
of the trains, and you never quite trust the waiter's most solemn
asseveration to the effect that you have still so many minutes left,
decreasing rapidly from fifteen to five, when, time being up and the
food down, you find yourself hurrying out on to the platform, plunging
recklessly in between the lines, uncertain as to your carriage, and
becoming more and more hot, nervous, and uncomfortable up to the very
last moment, when the stout guard, with the heavy black moustache,
and the familiar bronzed features set off by a cap-band which once was
red, bundles you into your proper place, bangs the door, and you are
off,--for Paris, or wherever your destination may be.

DAUBINET knows the proprietor of the restaurant, likewise the
proprietor's good lady and good children. He has a great deal to
say to them, always by means of working the semaphore with his arms
and hands, as if the persons with whom he excitedly converses were
deaf; and having lost all count of time, besides being in a state
of considerable puzzle as to the existence of his appetite, he is
suddenly informed by the head-waiter,--another of his acquaintances,
for DAUBINET, it appears, is a constant traveller to and fro on this
route, that if he wants, any thing he must take it at once, or he
won't get it at all, unless he chooses to stop there and lose his
train. So DAUBINET ladles some soup into his mouth, and savagely
worries a huge lump of bread: then having gobbled up the soup in a
quarter of a second, and having put away all the bread in another
quarter, he pours a glass of wine into a tumbler out of the bottle
which I have had opened for both of us, adds water, then tosses it
off, wipes his lips with the napkin which he bangs down on the table,
and, with his hat and coat on, his small bag in his hand, and quite
prepared to resume the journey, he cries, "_Allons! Petzikoff!_" (or
some such word, which I suppose to be either Russian or an ejaculation
quite new and original, but _à la Russe_, and entirely his own
invention), with the cheery and enthusiastic addition of, "Blass the
Prince of WAILES!"

"By all means," I cordially respond, for we are on a foreign soil,
where loyalty to our Royal Family is no longer a duty only, but
also a mark of patriotism, which should ever distinguish the true
Briton,--though, by the way, now I think of it, DAUBINET is a lively
Gaul. Subsequently, observing my friend DAUBINET, I find that he is
especially English in France, and peculiarly French in England. On
what is to me foreign, but to him his own native soil, he is always
bursting out into snatches of our British National Anthem, or he
sings the line above quoted. In France he will insist on talking
about London, England, Ireland, Scotland, with imitations in slang or
of brogue, as the case may be, on every possible or even impossible
opportunity; and, when the subject of conversation does not afford
him any chance for his interpolations, then, for a time, he will "lay
low," like. Brer Fox, only to startle us with some sudden outbursts
of song, generally selected from the popular English Melodies of a
byegone period, such as "_My Pretty Jane_," "_My Love is like a red,
red Rose_," or "_Good-bye, Sweetheart, good-bye_," and such-like
musical reminiscences, invariably finishing with a quotation from the
National Anthem, "_Rule Britannia_," or "Blass the Prince of WAILES!"
He is a travelling chorus.

We stop--I don't know where, as I trust entirely to my guide and
fellow-traveller--for a good twenty minutes' stuff, nominally dinner,
_en route_, about seven o'clock. It is the usual rush; the usual
indecision; the usual indigestion. DAUBINET does more execution among
the eatables and drinkables in five minutes than I can manage in the
full time allotted to refreshment; and not only this, but he finds
plenty of time for talking nonsense to one of the nicest-looking
waitresses. Of course, he positively refuses to speak a word of his
own native language, but gives his orders in English, Spanish, and
Russian, to the despair of all the attendants, with the exception of
the pretty waiting-maid, to whom he addresses himself in colloquial
French. She quite enters into the joke; can give and take as
pleasantly as possible; can also fetch and carry; and when, finally,
DAUBINET _en bon prince_ rewards her intelligence with a two-franc
piece, her bright smile, and her courteous "_Merci beaucoup,
Monsieur_," prove once more that she can take as well as give,--nay,
even better, and yet leave the donor her debtor. "_Da Karascho!_ Yes,
all right! _Montez donc!_" cries my mercurial friend, hurrying to
the train; then, as he once more settles himself in the compartment,
he sings "Rule Britannia! Blass the Prince of WAILES! O Maman!" and
before I have lit my after-dinner cigar, he has made himself quite
comfortable, lying at full length, and is fast asleep. So am I soon.
When I awake, it is night; pitch-dark, and very cold. We are stopping
at some station. A stout Frenchman enters our carriage; not that there
is anything remarkable about his stoutness, as it seems to me that the
majority of middle-class and middle-aged Frenchmen, and Frenchwomen,
too, are all, more or less, of considerable corpulence.

[Illustration]

The new arrival recognises DAUBINET, and salutes him. DAUBINET warmly
acknowledges the recognition, and in a few moments they are engaged
in an animated conversation, one commencing his reply before the other
has finished his question, neither permitting the other to complete
a sentence, whether interrogatory or declaratory; so that, during the
greater part of their conversation,--which lasts till, thank goodness,
the stranger has to get out, which he does at the next station, and
disappears in the darkness,--I can only pick up a word or half a
sentence here and there, and, in a general way, wonder why they become
so earnest and emphatic about the most ordinary topics. For an English
listener, however, it is an excellent lesson in colloquial French;
only I cannot help wishing that they would take the "_tempo_" just a
little slower, and that their tone were not necessarily up to concert
pitch, in order to keep itself well above the running accompaniment
of railway-wheels, which seems to fit all modes of counting from two
to sixteen in a bar. At last the train stops, the dialogue becomes
jerky, our companion salutes us politely, wishes us "_bon voyage_" and
descends.

After his departure, I ask DAUBINET, "Who is your friend?" as I should
like to know the reason of DAUBINET not having introduced us. His
reply at once resolves all my doubts and difficulties on the subject;
it is simply, "Heaven knows! He is a nice fellow. I have met him
_quelque part. Ah! v'là!_" He rushes to the window. "Hi! hi! Guard!
Conducteur!" The Conducteur appears, and informs us that we descend at
the next station, and, after that, in another five minutes we shall be
at Reims.

And so we are. Reims at last! Not brilliant is Reims on this dark
night. There are several omnibuses and other vehicles waiting to
take the very few passengers who alight from the train, and who, it
appears, as a rule, prefer to walk. Having no baggage beyond a few
bags and a small portmanteau which travel with us in our compartment,
and which the porter can wheel on a truck, or indeed carry if he
chooses, we are soon in the 'bus, and rattling over the stones to the
Hotel.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "NEB'LAR (HIC) 'POTHESIS."

_Elderly Gentleman_ (_overcome by gravitation_). "'ORRIGHT,
INSPECTRUM. BEEN READING SPEESH--PRES'DENT BRI'SH-SOSHIASHLEM.
SHPLENDID SPEESH! I'M IN 'UNIQUE POSISHN 'F (HIC) ABSOLUTE IMM'BILITY
IN MIDSHT OF WHIRLING 'N DRIFTING SUNS, 'N SYSHTEMS 'F SUNS.' GOOD OLD
HUGGINS!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

ODE TO A BAROMETER.

(_BY A TROUBLED TAPSTER._)

  I tap you early, tap you late,
            In vain!
  We get--whatever _you_ may state--
            Much rain.
  The Woodpecker of which fools sing
            Ne'er tapped
  Half so persistently. Since Spring
            I've rapped
  Your fair false dial day by day,
            And yet
  The end--whatever you may say
            Is wet!
  'Twas wet in June, and in July
            Wet too;
  In August it is wetter. Why,
            Trust _you_?
  Barometer, you false old chap,
            You bore!
  I'm no Woodpecker, and I'll tap
            No more!

       *       *       *       *       *

"NOTHING IN THE PAPERS!"

_OR, VOLUNTARY CONTRIBUTIONS UN-GRATEFULLY RECEIVED._

    SCENE--_A Railway Compartment. BROWN and SMITH _looking up
    from their Daily Papers._

_Brown_. Now that Parliament stands prorogued, I suppose there is
nothing to read?

_Smith_. Nothing. Except this article upon Australia. Tells one
all about Capital and Labour in _that_ part of the world. Most
interesting. Wonder how they found room for it! Have you seen it?

_Brown_. Well, no. Fact is I have been reading about Argentina. Very
exhaustive article this, and on a matter of serious moment. I hold
some shares as a trustee. Seems that they will all come right in the
end. Would you like to see it?

_Smith_. When I have time to read it. But, to tell the truth, it takes
me a good hour to get through the City Intelligence. And the racing,
too, that always interests me; but I don't think it is so exciting as
the Stock Exchange.

_Brown_. No more do I. By the way, is there anything good in the
correspondence line in your paper?

_Smith_. The usual sensational recess subjects. Some of the letters
are too good for the general public; they must have been written in
the office.

_Brown_. I daresay. And perhaps these sketches of places away from
Town are also written in London?

_Smith_. Not a bit of it! I happen to know that the papers spend
thousands and thousands upon obtaining information in every quarter of
the globe. Bogus articles are things of the past.

_Brown_. Only fancy! And all this expense for nothing in the recess!
When no one reads the papers!

_Smith_. Yes, and when there's nothing in them!

    [_They resume perusal of their papers until interrupted by a
    tunnel. Curtain._

       *       *       *       *       *

THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.

[Illustration]

      Oh, Sir, I read the papers every day,
      To amuse myself and pass the time away;
  But they've got so hard to follow that they simply beat me hollow
      With the learning and the culture they display;
  And they wouldn't be so hard if those good people down at Cardiff
    Would but be a shade more careful what they say.

    The President's address, I think, will tax
    My intellectual organ till it cracks;
  The Association British isn't wanted to be skittish,
    Wear the motley, nor to run a race in sacks;
  But 'twas getting awkward rather when my youngest asked his father
    What the President implied by parallax.

    The money market often puzzles me;
    I've no notion what the Funding Loan may be;
  In the sales of corn (Odessa), jute and sago, I confess a
      Sort of feeling that I'm very much at sea;
  But couldn't the reporter keep this science rather shorter,
      Or at any rate provide us with a key?

       *       *       *       *       *

QUEER QUERIES.

HOUSE DECORATION.--What am I to do under the following circumstances?
I took a house a year ago, and painted the outside scarlet, with gold
"facings," to remind me--and my neighbours--of the fact that I am
highly connected with the Army, my deceased wife's half-brother having
once held some post in the Commissariat. I am leaving the house now,
and my landlord actually insists on my scraping all the paint off! He
says that if any bulls happen to pass the house, they will be sure to
run at it. Am I obliged to yield to this ridiculous caprice?--LOVER OF
THE PICTURESQUE.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ALL-ROUND POLITICIANS.--SIR RICHARD.

_Mr. Punch's Parliamentary Artist reads in the Papers that Sir Richard
T---- does not intend to Stand for Parliament again!_]

       *       *       *       *       *

SEASIDE ASIDES.

(_PATERFAMILIAS IN NORTH CORNWALL._)

[Illustration]

  Oh! how delightful now at last to come
    Away from town--its dirt, its degradation,
  Its never-ending whirl, its ceaseless hum.
    (A long chalks better, though, than sheer stagnation.)

  For what could mortal man or maid want more
    Than breezy downs to stroll on, rocks to climb up,
  Weird labyrinthine caverns to explore?
    (There's nothing else to do to fill the time up.)

  Your honest face here earns an honest brown,
    You ramble on for miles 'mid gorse and heather,
  Sheep hold athletic sports upon the down
    (Which makes the mutton taste as tough as leather).

  The place is guiltless, too, of horrid piers,
    And likewise is not Christy-Minstrel tooney;
  No soul-distressing strains disturb your ears.
    (A German band has just played "_Annie Rooney_.")

  The eggs as fresh as paint, the Cornish cream
    The boys from school all say is "simply ripping,"
  The butter, so the girls declare, "a dream."
    (The only baccy you can buy quite dripping.)

  A happiness of resting after strife,
    Where one forgets all worldly pain and sorrow,
  And one contentedly could pass one's life.
    (A telegram will take _me_ home to-morrow.)

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

CANINE SAGACITY.--Numerous instances of this have been quoted in the
_Spectator_ and other papers. Our _Toby_ would like to be informed
how one clever dog would communicate with another clever dog, if the
former were in a great hurry? The reply from a great authority in the
K9 Division, signing himself "DOGBERRY," is that "the clever dog would
either tailegraph or tailephone; but that, anyhow, in the strictest
confidence, he would tell his own tail."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE MANNERS OF OUR CHILDREN!

(_FRAGMENT FROM A TRAGIC FARCE, SUGGESTED BY A CORRESPONDENCE IN A
DAILY PAPER._)

    SCENE--_The Sanctum of Paterfamilias. Enter to him JACKY,
    his eldest born._

_Pater_. (_cordially_). How are you, old chap?

_Jacky_. Very well, thank you, Father. And will you forgive me--is not
"chap" a trifle slangy?

_Pater_. (_astonished_). Eh! what?

_Jacky_. You were good enough to write to my Form Master after the
Easter Vacation, complaining of my style. Consequently that worthy
pedagogue has given more than usual attention to that part of my
education.

[Illustration]

_Pater_. Well, now you are home for the holidays! As for your Form
Master--hang him and all his works!

_Jacky_. Are you quite sure that you are quoting correctly? To the
best of my belief the line goes, "hang him with his pen and ink-horn."

_Pater_. Eh! what? I don't understand you.

_Jacky_. Why, my dear Father, I naturally concluded that you were
quoting; from the Immortal Bard. You will find the passage in _The
Second Part of King Henry the Sixth_, scene iv., line 2.

_Pater_. What are you talking about?

_Jacky_. Why your misquotation. And will you forgive me--but do you
not think it would sound better if you were to ask me--"about what I
was talking"? I might add that my Form Master and I--

_Pater_. Your "Form Master and you." Rot and bosh! I should say--

_Jacky_ (_with a twitch of pain_). Oh, my dear Father, more slang,
more slang!

_Pater_. (_getting very red_). And what if there is? What's that to
you? You don't pay for my education, do you?

_Jacky_ (_quickly_). No. If I did, I could not declare that I was
satisfied with your progress!

_Pater_. (_indignantly_). You little prig, I--

_Jacky_ (_calmly interrupting_). Pray do not excite yourself. I am
only doing my duty. I am merely attempting to instruct those less
polished than myself. Surely I may regard such an action with
satisfaction?

_Pater_. (_furious_). You shall go back to school at once!

_Jacky_. I am afraid that that is scarcely practicable. If you will
refer to the slip that accompanied my school-bill, you will notice
that the Vacation does not cease until the 20th of September.

_Pater_. And a nice school-bill! Why they charged everything as an
extra!

_Jacky_. Surely such a matter is scarcely within my province?
According to statute, my dear Father, you are bound to provide for me
until (if my memory does not betray me) I reach the age of sixteen. As
I am now five years younger than that limit, it is clearly your duty
to support me.

_Pater_. Why, Sir, you are insupportable!

_Jacky_ (_smiling_). I see--a joke--very good! But, my dear Sir, do
you think it quite dignified to make so small a jest in my presence?
It is calculated to lessen my respect for you.

_Pater_. Well I never!

_Jacky_. Never what? You have not completed the sentence.

_Pater_. Sir, you are an insolent young puppy!

_Jacky_. I am forced to contradict you--in justice to yourself. You
cannot be willing to let me regard you as a dog?

_Pater_. (_after a pause_). Well, the sooner you get back to the
school the better.

_Jacky_ (_promptly_). I have no doubt you are right, my dear
Father; and, as I take a sincere interest in your welfare, I would
respectfully suggest that you should accompany me. It must be patent
to us both that you are lacking in polish.

_Pater_. (_losing his patience_). You young cub! I will give you the
soundest thrashing you ever had in your life!

_Materfamilias_ (_interposing_). Oh, you cruel man! What has the poor
child done?

_Jacky_ (_with ready tact_). Nothing, dearest Mamma, except to take
after his kind, clever and accomplished Mother!

    [_Scene closes in upon a family group not entirely free from
    domestic complications._

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SURREY ABC.

[Illustration]

  A is for ABEL, who can certainly block well;
  B stands for BOWLEY, and BEAUMONT, and BROOKWELL;
  C is the Captain, JOHN SHUTER his name;
  D is the Devotion he gives to the game;
  E is the Eleven, deservedly great;
  F is the Funk which their bowlers create.
  G stands for GEORGE--our only GEORGE LOHMANN;
  H for young HENDERSON, valiant young foeman.
  I is the Innings, beloved of the gapers;
  J is the Jargon they put in the papers.
  K is for KEY, the accomplished Dark Blue;
  L is for LOCKWOOD, who bowls a bit too;
  M is for MAURICE, his other name READ;
  N poor old Nottingham, beaten indeed.
  O is the Oval, the home of the crowd;
  P the Pavilion, the seat of the proud.
  Q is the Question, "Oh, Umpire, how's that?"
  R is for Gentleman READ, who can bat.
  S stands for SHARPE, it will pay you to mind him;
  T is the Trouble they were put to to find him;
  U their United attempts--hard, to beat them;
  V the Vain efforts oft made to defeat them.
  W represents WOOD at the wicket;
  X is the Xcellent style of their cricket.
  Y ends the county, not played out in a hurry.
  Z stands for Zero, a stranger to Surrey!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

A GENUINE REGRET.--The French Admiral had one regret in leaving
Albion's hospitable shores, and that is that he didn't go up to London
and get a taste of a real City Savory at a Munching House banquet. He
wouldn't have found The Albion "perfidious" in the matter of "turtle
and fine living,"--which was Mrs. R.'s description of the Pharisee.
Their French leave is up, and they're on sail or return.

       *       *       *       *       *

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.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol.
101, August 29, 1891, by Various

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13503 ***