Punch, or the London Charivari

Volume 105, November 4th 1893

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

SELF-HELP.

Monday.—Am sick of paying all these doctor's bills. Have just seen an advertisement of The Domestic Doctor, a Dictionary of Medicine, issued in monthly parts. The very thing for a man like me, somewhat delicate. Hasten to secure Part I. Shall now be able to doctor myself and save all fees. Delightful! To celebrate emancipation ask Jones and Robinson to dinner at club. No need for economy now. Jolly good dinner. That club port is excellent.

Tuesday.—Feel rather seedy. Pain in head. No appetite. Just the time to make use of Domestic Doctor. Capital book. Hullo! Well, I'll be hanged! Never thought of that. The beastly thing's alphabetical, and only gets to "Chilblain." No good to look out "Headache." Ah, perhaps "Ache." No go. "Appetite?" But appetite isn't a disease, except in men like Banting. Absolutely no use whatever. Still, will not be conquered. Shall get another part in a month. Until then take great care only to have complaints up to Ch. Can always fall back on Chilblain. Take it easy, with B. and S. in moderate doses when required, and begin to feel better.

Wednesday.—Just cut my finger. Feel somewhat nervous. Remember vaguely that lock-jaw often follows a wound on the hand. Ha! My dictionary. "Cuts." Ah, no. "Cuts" come after "Chilblain." They will be in Part II. Bandage wound, and prepare for the worst. Sit with mouth wide open as best attitude for approaching lockjaw. Can then at least be fed. If, however, it really comes, shall be dead before Part VII. of the Dictionary is out. Anyhow, will not send for a doctor.

Thursday.—Hooray! Finger and jaw both well. Somehow left boot feels uncommonly tight. Can't walk at all. That fool Phust has made this pair too narrow. Feels as though there were something on my toe. By Jove, so there is! Where's the Dictionary? Chilblain? Can't be a chilblain this mild weather. Of course not; it's a corn. Look out "Corn." Oh, hang it, just too far! But, bright idea, perhaps it's a bunion. Look out "Bunion." Hullo, what's this? "Bunion, see Corn." Well, of all the confounded——Positively can't walk till next month. Lie on sofa under open window to get as much air as possible. Fall asleep. Heavy shower comes on. Get quite wet.

Friday.—Sneezing like mad, and coughing. Blow my cough! Blow my nose! No good looking out "Cold" or "Cough" in Dictionary, unless—of course "Catarrh." Seize my priceless treasure, and read, "Catarrh, Latin catarrhus, from Greek"—oh, hang the derivation!—"an affection of the mucous membrane, commonly called a cold. See Cold." Foiled again! Must do what I can with domestic remedies till Part II. comes out. Fires, hot grog, hot bath, hot gruel, lots of blankets. Nearly suffocated.

Saturday.—Very much worse. Awful cough. Sit close to fire wrapped in thick dressing-gown. Jones looks in. "Hullo, old man," he says, "what's wrong? Seedy?" I choke out some answer. "Why don't you send for the doctor?" In my indignation nearly burst my head with coughing. At last show him Dictionary, and write on scrap of paper, "Can you suggest some complaint like mine beginning with A or B, or C up to Ch?" Impetuous fellow, Jones. Starts off wildly—"Influenza, Pneumonia, Pleurisy, Diphtheria, Sore Throat, Inflammation of the Lungs——" Then I manage to stop him, and to gasp, "Up to C." "No difficulty about that," says he. "Cold. Cough——" I shake my head feebly. "Well, then, Bronchitis." Of course. The very thing. Look it out. "Bronchitis, from Greek"—blow the derivation!—"inflammation of the membrane of the bronchia. This serious disease requires skilled attention. Keep the patient warm, and send at once for a medical man." What a miserable swindle, when I hoped to save all doctor's fees! Was warm before. Simply boiling with indignation now. Pass the book to Jones in speechless disgust. "Quite right too," he remarks; "just what I said. Capital book! I'll send the doctor as I go home." And so he does, in spite of my protests. Doctor comes and lays his head on my chest. Then he says, cheerfully, "Only a little cough. You'll be all right to-morrow. What's that you say? Bronchitis? Bosh!"

Horsey Party. "Aw—I want your Table d'Oat Dinner!"

A LAWYER'S CHORTLE.

(A long way after "The Throstle.")

Vacation is over, vacation is over,

I know it, I know it, I know it.

Back to the Strand again, home to the Courts again,

Come counsel and clients to go it.

Welcome awaits you, High Court of Justice,

Thousands will flock to you daily.

"You, you, you, you." Is it then for you,

That we forget the Old Bailey?

Jostling and squeezing and struggling and shoving,

What else were the Courts ever made for?

The Courts 'twixt the Temple and grey Lincoln's Inn,

They're not yet entirely paid for!

Now till next year, all of us cry,

We'll say (for a fee) what we're bidden.

Vacation is over, is over, hurrah!

And all past sorrow is hidden.

The Pickwickian Examination Paper.—Pickwickian students are well to the front. The first answer to our question in last week's number was sent from Maidstone. Fitting that it should come from Dickens's favourite county, Kent. Yes. The only mention of champagne in Pickwick is when Mr. Tupman drank a bottle of it after an exhilarating quadrille.

DAMON OUT OF DATE.

Here is the lovely summer going by,

And we know nought about it, you and I,

Being so far away

One from the other; yet to outward eye

We both are summer gay.

And people talk; although no pulses stir

However much I laugh and dance with her,

My temporary fate;

And you, perhaps as carelessly, prefer

That one your will to wait,

Who, the dance over, from his strict embrace

Gallantly frees you, mops his sun-tanned face,

And asks in accents low

Whether you'd like an ice, or what, in case

You breathe a doubtful "No."

Oh, the striped awning and the fairy lamp,

The cool night fragrance, the insidious damp,

And, more insidious still,

The sweet effrontery of the beardless scamp

Who babbles at his will.

Here, by the sea, which in the darkness sings,

On the free breeze I give my fancy wings,

And in a sudden shrine

Your image throned appears, while the wind swings

Its sea-incense divine.

Breathless I worship in the waiting night

The sparkling eyes, that sometimes seem all light,

The cheek so purely pale,

The sacred breast, than whitest dress more white,

Where whitest thought must fail.

Thin arms, with dimpled shadows here and there,

The curl'd luxuriance of your soft, dark hair

Its own bewitching wreath,

And perfect mouth that shows, in smiles too rare,

The radiant little teeth.

You cannot live on dances and delights,

Or fêtes by day and dance-music by nights.

Time foots it fleeter far

Than all the surging crowd your beauty smites

Like some coruscant star.

The ruthless social dragon will not spare

Your sweet girl nature, withering in the glare,

Or peeping out by stealth.

Wealth's prize is beauty, and to make all fair,

Beauty's desire is wealth.

I cannot keep a carriage for you, dear;

No horses on three hundred pounds a year

My lacking stables grace.

Yet the swift Hansom to the whistle clear

Will always speed apace.

I cannot give you wines of vintage rare,

There is no room for them beneath the stair

Which is my cellar's space.

Yet with Duke Humphrey we could often fare

With more than ducal grace.

Ah, loves, like books, are fated from the first,

One gets no cup of water for the thirst

The whole stream would not slake;

Another dims with tears the springs that burst

To sunshine for his sake.

When this vain fervour sadly sobers down,

I'll love you still, white maid, with eyes so brown

And voice so passing sweet,

And haply with Apollo's laurel crown

My love's foredoomed defeat.

WHEN THE "CAT"'S AWAY!

Air—"The Sergeant's Song."

When the "Cat" is not engaged in its employment—

Right employment,

Of laying its nine tails on brutal backs—

Brutal backs,

Street gangs of roughs are free to find employment—

Bad employment,

In beleaguering the cit's returning tracks—

Homeward tracks.

Our feelings we with difficulty smother—!

'Culty smother,

At finding ruffian hordes at rowdy "fun"—

Rowdy fun.

Taking one consideration with another—

With another,

One feels that something stringent should be done—

Promptly done!

There's the pistol-bearing burglar boldly burgling—

Boldly burgling,

There's the female fiend engaged in cruel crime—

Cruel crime.

There's the bashed, half-throttled traveller lying gurgling—

Faintly gurgling,

And the "Cat" is lying idle all the time—

All the time.

There's the brutal bully kicking wife or mother—

Wife or mother,

The unnatural father torturing his son—

Childish son!

Ah, take one consideration with another—

With another,

It's surely time that something stern were done—

Quickly done!

When the "Cat" was laid about the brute garrotter—

Cur garrotter,

He soon found it inadvisable to choke—

'Ble to choke.

And the lout who of street-outrage is a plotter—

Callous plotter,

Would not deem the nine-tailed lash a little joke—

Pleasant joke.

The woman-beating brute would hardly smother—

Scarcely smother,

His howlings when the lash was well laid on—

Well laid on.

So, take one consideration with another—

With another,

The "Cat" should once again be called upon—

Called upon.

The "corner-boys," and larrikins, and suchlike—

Louts and suchlike,

Who rove the streets at night in rowdy gangs—

Robber-gangs,

The tingling o' the nine tails might not much like—

Would not much like,

But that need not stir sentimental pangs—

Maudlin pangs.

"Gang-boy" to brute Garrotter is just brother—

Simply brother.

The "Cat" away such vermin prowl—for "fun"—

Savage fun!

Yes, take one consideration with another—

With another,

The "Cat" should wake again, says Punch for one—

Punch for one!

The policeman seems unequal to the job—

Toughish job.

The constabulary fails to quell the mob—

Rowdy mob.

So, as, very plainly, something must be done—

Promptly done,

The suggestion of the "Cat"'s a happy one—

Happy one!

[And Mr. Punch, with picture and poem (grimly earnest, though of Gilbertian tone) urges its application energetically home, upon the powers that be.

AGRICULTURAL MANNERS.

Scene—Hounds running across Land occupied by Non-sporting Tenant.

Sportswoman. "Now, my Boy, open the Gate, please, and let me through."

Young Hodge. "My Orthers is—'Jim, you oppens that there Gāate for no man!' And ar'm denged if ar dis for a Woman!"

NOTE BY OUR OWN PHILOSOPHER.

The breakfast-eating practical joker, who can be credited with the humorous invention of placing the shell of an egg (the edible contents of which he has previously extracted and swallowed) inverted in an egg-cup, so as to deceive the first hungry person arriving late into fancying that the others have considerately deprived themselves in order that he may not be without his favourite delicacy, this originator, I say, was decidedly a genius. His work after hundreds, nay, thousands of years, remains, fresh as is the new laid egg itself! After being used a million billion times, it gives now the same pleasure as ever it did when it first issued from the brain of its brilliant creator! Such a practical joke as this is "not for an age, but for all time," until there shall be no longer left a hen to lay an egg, or, if there be an egg left by the expiring hen, there shall be no longer a person remaining to eat the egg left by the egg-spiring hen; or, if the person and the egg be there, the last man and the last egg, there shall be no ten minutes allowed for refreshment, as there will be no more time for anything!! Socrates, Homer, Ovid, Horace, Plautus, Terence, Shakspeare, Watt, Sir Isaac Newton, cum multis aliis! their names are remembered, and their fame is to the end of the world! While, alas, the name of the True Wit who first chuckled over his stroke of genius, is lost for ever, no work of art perpetuates his name. But his humour is usque ad finem omnium rerum!

Mrs. R. is not surprised that the Valkyrie did not win, when it broke its pinnacle and did not have a centipede.

UNDER THE ROSE.

(A Story in Scenes.)

Scene XII.—Another box at the Eldorado. Time—About 9.30 P.M.

Enter Mrs. Merridew and Althea, followed by Colonel Merridew and Captain Alchin.

Mrs. Merridew. Frank, the man did say Walter Wildfire hasn't sung yet, didn't he? Yes? then that's all right! Oughtn't you and I to sit at the back, Thea? Well, you shall have this corner at any rate, and then the curtain will hide you. Captain Alchin, will you come between us, please, and then you can explain any of the jokes we don't understand.

[They settle down.

Captain Alchin. Pleasure! (To himself.) Think I see myself explainin' the jokes and that! (Aloud.) Afraid I shan't be of much use, really. Rather out of my line this sort of thing, you know!

Mrs. M. I'm sure you must know more about it than Miss Toovey and I do. Tell me who is this rather good-looking girl in kneebreeches with the horrid voice and the blue eyelids, and why does she walk like that?

"See us lurch along in line, with a straggle serpentine."

Capt. Alch. (off his guard). Oh, that's Miss Lardie Lushboy; it's her usual business—drinkin' song, young man about town, and all that.

Mrs. M. There, you see, you know all about her!

[Capt. A. hastens to explain that her name is on the programme.

Miss Lardie (sings)—

See us lurch along in line, with a straggle serpentine,

[She suits the action to the word.

For we've done a heavy fuddle, and we never pass a "pub"!

And if you want a proof how we chuck about our "oof"—

Why, come along and have a drink with the Rowdy Razzle Club!

Mrs. M. I suppose that's intended as a satire on noisy young men, isn't it, Captain Alchin?

Captain Alch. (who hadn't thought of it in that light). Well—ha—that depends on how you take it, don't you know.

Mrs. M. That's the way I shall take it, and then it's quite moral. (A Low Comedian, in a broad-brimmed hat and a rough black wig, makes his appearance.) This must be Walter Wildfire, I suppose. Thea, do you see? he looks quite nice, and not really vulgar. Now he's going to sing. Isn't he too delightfully funny! What, Frank? Not Wildfire? Mr. Alf Redbeak. Are you sure? I was wondering what there could possibly be in such a common little man as that to make such a fuss about. And what language? Captain Alchin, what does he mean by saying that he was "dotted on the crust by a copper," and "went off his onion"?

Capt. Alch. (who foresees rocks ahead if he once undertakes to interpret). Oh, well, they're always inventin' some new slang, you know, Mrs. Merridew; no use tryin' to keep up with it.

[Miss Cissie Cinders appears as a bedraggled maid of all work, and sings a doleful ditty to the effect that—"Her missis will not let her wear no feathers in her 'at, so her sojer's gone and given 'er the chuck."

Mrs. M. (delighted). Isn't she refreshing—so deliciously vulgar! I do hope she hasn't finished. Thea, you're sitting as quiet as a little mouse in that corner. I hope you're not too dreadfully shocked? I'm not—at least of course I am, really; but it's not nearly so bad as I expected.

Althea. Oh, I'm not in the least shocked, Cissie, thanks; only I don't quite understand it all.

Mrs. M. My dear, no more do I. I don't understand any of it—but that makes no difference!

Alth. (To herself). I don't like to say so, but I am disappointed. Mr. Curphew said it would be like a Penny Reading; but it's not a bit, it's ever so much stupider. But he never goes himself, so of course——

Mrs. M. It's quite a respectable audience; I thought we should be the only people in evening dress, but we're not. I do wish they wouldn't allow quite so much smoking, though; the atmosphere's getting something too awful. Oh, Thea, do look in that box just opposite. Can you see through that lace curtain? Ah, you can't see now!

Alth. (looking round the edge of the curtain). Where, Cissie, who is it?

Mrs. M. Why, quite the typical British Matron—the most tremendously proper-looking person; so if she doesn't see any harm in being here, I'm sure we needn't. I'll tell you when she pops her her head out again. There, quick! Thea, quick! Did you see her that time?

Alth. (faintly). Y—yes. I—I saw her that time. (To herself.) Is this a wicked conscience—or what? It was so like Mamma! But how could it be?

Mrs. M. Did you ever see such a grim old frump, Thea? I wonder what possessed her to come to a place like this? She doesn't look as if it was amusing her much.

Alth. (distractedly). Doesn't she? (To herself.) If it should be Mamma! If she has found out in some way that we were to be here to-night and followed us! But how could she know? Suppose she were to see me, and—and come round and fetch me away; how awful it would be! But she can't see me through these curtains. I don't believe it is Mamma. I—I wish I dared look again. Oh, why did I get Cissie to bring me here?

Capt. Alch. May I borrow your opera glass for a moment, Mrs. Merridew? Thanks, awf'ly. (As he looks through it.) There's goin' to be a row in that opposite box. Your British Matron's gettin' her quills up—give you my word she is.

Mrs. M. Oh, do let me see! (She holds out her hand for the glass, which Capt. A. surrenders.) Yes, I do believe you're right. Somebody's just come in and——Now there's another, a young man, and—oh, Thea!

Alth. (in an agony). What is it, Cissie? do tell me! (To herself.) It must be Charles—I'm sure it's Charles. Then that's why—and it is Mamma! (Aloud.) Mayn't I have the glass?

Mrs. M. I think you had better not, dear. The British Matron has boxed the poor young man's ears—she has really. I wonder what—but well, it doesn't matter. Now she's turned him out of the box. He's coming back—alone. Yes, the old lady has certainly gone—it's all over. I'm so sorry; it was ever so much more interesting than that big fat man who's singing!

Alth. (tremulously). Mayn't I look now, Cissie, if it's all over? (She almost snatches the glass, and directs it at the young man in Box C—then to herself, with relief.) Why, it isn't Charles—it's not even like him. Then—oh, what a goose I've been! It wasn't Mamma either. It was all my fancy, and she had on rather the same kind of bonnet. As if Mamma would come to a music-hall and box the ears of somebody she didn't know! But what a fright it gave me!

[She begins to feel capable of enjoying the performance.

Col. Merridew (later). Now we're going to see the great man, Cecilia. Wildfire's down to sing next.

Capt. Alch. Don't you be too sure, Frank. They haven't put the number up yet, you see. As likely as not they'll put in an "extra turn," and he won't come at all. I've known that happen lots of times when you come on purpose to see somethin', don't you know.

Mrs. M. Really, Captain Alchin, I shall begin to suspect that you are more of an authority about music-halls than your modesty would admit at first.

Capt. Alch. (in some confusion). No, really now, Mrs. Merridew, all I mean is Wildfire's bringin' out a play or somethin' to-night at the Hilarity, so he mayn't be able to turn up here, don't you see.

Mrs. M. I won't have you predicting evil like that; it's not at all nice of you, and you're quite wrong, too; for there's his number in the frame now!

[The Scene on the Stage changes once more from an Oriental Palace to a London Street; a bell tingles; the Orchestra dashes into the air of "The Hansom Cabman," which the bulk of the audience hail with delight; then a stream of limelight is thrown on the boards, and Walter Wildfire appears.

Mrs. M. (after the first verse). I don't know what it is, but there's something about him very different from all the others. And they say he writes all his own songs and music—so clever of him! Quite a striking face he has, rather handsome, with that drooping moustache. Don't you think he's handsome, Thea? (Althea does not answer; Wildfire sings the last verse; as he concludes, the house is hushed for an instant, and then breaks into a thunder of applause.) It's quite beautiful that last verse; poor, poor fellow! it all seemed so real, somehow! Ah, he's not going to sing the last verse again. I'm rather glad, for I very nearly howled, and it would be too silly to cry at a music-hall. (Interval.) Here he is again; how different he looks. I suppose it's the sandwich-boards. (Wildfire goes through the second song with the small child; in the midst of the second stanza, he suddenly falters, and only recovers himself by a violent effort; Althea has bent forward out of the shadow of the curtain.) It's too frightfully pathetic; he's such a dear, isn't he? (The applause is more rapturous than ever; an encore is clamoured for; Wildfire reappears, looking ghastly pale, and makes a mute plea for indulgence; after he has finally retired, the clamour still continues, until the scene and the number are shifted.) He won't sing any more—how sad! Wasn't he charming with that child? (In an undertone.) Why, Althea, darling!

Alth. (in a shaken voice). D—don't speak to me just yet, Cissie. I know it's very foolish of me; but I can't bear it.

Capt. Alch. (to himself). Gad, I'd give somethin' to sing like that Johnny, and make her eyes shine like that!

Mrs. M. Frank, we may as well go now, there's nothing else worth staying for, and I'm sure this horrid tobacco is ruining my poor pearls; or would you rather stay a little longer, Thea?

Alth. Oh, no, no; I don't want to hear anybody else—after that. (To herself, as Capt. A. helps her on with her cloak.) And that is the man Mr. Curphew said nothing would induce him to go and see. And I actually persuaded myself that—— But I am wiser now. He can never be anything to me!

[She leaves the box with her party.

END OF SCENE XII.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Colonel Colvile chivalrously takes upon himself responsibility for the title of the volume in which his wife has recorded their joint experience of a trip round the coast of Africa. Round the Black Man's Garden is about as bad a title as a book could have. Happily, Mrs. Colvile's clever travel notes triumphantly carry the weight. The travellers commenced their journey at Suez, visiting places in the Red Sea which voyagers by the P. and O. steamers pass by on the other side. They made their way down the west coast by all the most uncomfortable means of conveyance attainable, culminating in the filanzana, in which instrument of torture they were carried across the hills and through the swamps of Madagascar. Colonel Colvile, just now enjoying himself amid the privations of the journey up country to Uganda, is well known as an indomitable traveller. In Mrs. Colvile he found a worthy companion. On a merry page of the narrative of life in Madagascar, it is incidentally mentioned that the travellers arrive at Malatsy with their luggage soaking after a dip in the river. They dine in a whitewashed hut, with an army of big cockroaches overrunning the walls. Resuming their journey next morning they "entered a dense cloud of singularly malignant little black flies." The half-naked porters were soon streaming with blood, and the passengers' faces were in a similar condition. "Luckily," writes Mrs. Colvile, in her cheery way, "we were soon clear of the infested belt, to move in the course of half-an-hour into a flight of locusts." Mrs. Colvile takes as the motto of her book the proverb, Qui suit son chemin arrive à la fin. My Baronite arrived at the end of Mrs. Colvile's fascinating narrative full of admiration for her courage and good temper. But as long as Piccadilly and Pall Mall are not "up," he will be content with them, and would rather not follow her road.

Baron de Book-Worms & Co.

THE CABMAN'S GUIDE TO POLITENESS.—No. I.

(In short, easy Lessons, arranged after the fashion of the Child's Handbook to Useful Knowledge.)

• Question. I suppose your chief desire is to make as much out of the public as possible?
• Answer. I suppose it is.
• Q. And you will be as glad to attain your object by politeness as by any other method?
• A. Well, of course it don't matter to me how I get the coin, so long as I do get it.
• Q. Precisely. Well, have you ever tried to be polite?
• A. Never. Don't know exactly what the word represents.
• Q. So I thought. Well, I will attempt to teach you its meaning by example.
• A. Thank you; so long as it helps me, and don't hurt you, what's the odds?
• Q. Certainly; I see that you have some rudimentary knowledge of the matter already. Well, to begin. Suppose a fare gave you less than what you considered your right charge, how would you behave?
• A. If a policeman wasn't in the way, I should say "What's this?" and glare at him indignantly.
• Q. Have you found this a successful method of obtaining an increase?
• A. Well, no, not much. Of course if you get an old lady, or a mother with a heap of children, you can do almost anything with them.
• Q. But let us take a smart cavalry officer, who knows his way about town, do you think the method you suggest would be successful with him?
• A. No, I don't; but no cavalry officer who was really smart would offer me less than my fare.
• Q. But we are assuming that there may be some question about the fare. For instance, what would you consider the right charge from Charing Cross railway-station to the St. James's Theatre?
• A. Why, eighteen pence, to be sure, and a cheap eighteen pence in the bargain.
• Q. Your computation of the charge will suit my purpose. Of course, you know that the police put the distance at something less than two miles, I may say considerably less?
• A. I daresay they do, but the police are not everybody, and you said I was not to consider the constables if they weren't on the spot. If they were, of course that would make a difference.
• Q. Assume you get a shilling. Now suppose you were to look at the coin, and to say, "I beg your pardon, Sir, but are you aware this shilling is a George the Fourth, or a well-preserved William the Fourth, or an early Victoria, would you not like to exchange it for one of less historical interest?" Do you not think that such a speech, with a civil touch of the hat, would immediately attract attention?
• A. It might, but I can't say for certain, as I have never tried it.
• Q. I did not suppose that you had. Do you not believe that were you to make such a remark your kind consideration would receive attention?
• A. Quite as likely as not, but what then?
• Q. Well, having established yourself on a friendly footing, could you not improve the occasion by adding, "I do not know whether you are aware of the fact, Sir, but I frequently receive eighteen pence for the very distance you have just travelled?"
• A. Of course I could, but what good would it be?
• Q. That you will probably find out if you act on my suggestion, and now, as I have taught you enough for to-day, I will adopt a driver's phrase and "pull up." Have you anything polite to say to me which will prove to me that you have been bettered by my instruction?
• A. Nothing that I can think of, unless it be, "Thank you for nothing."
• Q. That is scarcely the reply I had expected. However, do not be disheartened, to thank me at all is a move in the right direction. And now you will come again?
• A. Well, yes, when I have nothing better to do.
• Q. I am infinitely obliged to you. I will detain you no longer. Good-bye, and I hope you will adopt my method and find it successful.
• A. I hope so, too. But there's no telling.

THINGS ONE WOULD RATHER HAVE EXPRESSED DIFFERENTLY.

"Don't go, Canon; I want to introduce you to a Lady who wishes to make your acquaintance."

"Oh—er—I'm rather in a hurry; some other day, perhaps—er—er."

"It's my Wife, you know."

"Oh, that's different. I thought you said a Lady! I shall be charmed!"

THE BLACK SHADOW.

We're near to the gloomy Guy Faux anniversary,

Nigh to the gorging of Lord Mayor's Day,

But though 'tis November, there's joy in the Nursery

Ruled by Nurse Gladstone out Westminster way.

The summer's long troubles are laid on the shelf

And "Nana" looks quite like enjoying herself.

That bothersome bantling, the big Irish baby,

Is tucked up in bed for a long forty winks.

(Though its shrill Banshee howl will be heard again, maybe,

From waking it, yet, even Nana G. shrinks.)

So now for a nice quiet time, if you please,

With the brace of most sweet-tempered bairns on her knees.

They're English—quite English, and easy to handle,

Won't raise horrid noises and anger the House.

They're pleasant to see and delightful to dandle,

And Nana opines that, with nursery nous,

They'll be got "nicely off"—if she makes no mistakes—

Before that Hibernian worry awakes.

"To market, to market, to buy a fat piggy!

(But O, not a poor Irish pig—in a poke!)"

So pipes Nana Gladstone so jocund and jiggy

She ekes out her Nursery lilt with a joke.

"We've done, for a season, with row-de-dow-dow,

And there's no 'Bogey Man,' dears, to bother us now!"

Nurses, we know, find the "Black Man" most handy

To frighten their charges to quiet at times;

But now 'tis all "Hush-a-bye, Babes!" "Handy-pandy!"

And such soothing carols and quieting rhymes,

No need for a "black ugly thing in the garden"

To quiet these babes, thinks old Nana from Hawarden!

Alas, and alas! Bogey Men are such rum 'uns,

And some Ugly Things are "too previous," or worse.