PUNCH,
OR, THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOLUME 98.

MAY 10, 1890.

EIGHT HOURS ONLY.

(A Fancy Sketch of the Possible.)

It was the first day under the operation of the new Act. Everyone was a little nervous about the outcome, and John Jones, the Barrister, was no exception to the general rule. At three o'clock he was in the full swing of an impassioned appeal to the Jury.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Jones," said the Judge, glancing at the clock, "but I am afraid I must interrupt you. I cannot hear you any longer."

"But, my Lord, I have not touched upon a third of the case. I can assure you my remarks shall be as brief as possible."

"That is not the point, Mr. Jones," replied his Lordship. "I am following your argument with the liveliest interest, and I am sure that all you would wish to say would be of the greatest possible service to your client; but unfortunately I happen to know that you prepare your cases in the early hours of the morning. Now, you know the law as well I do. If you have not been at work to-day for eight hours, of course I shall be happy to hear; but if you have——"

"As your Lordship pleases," said poor Jones, and he gathered up his papers, and left the Court.

"Just in time, Sir," observed the attendant in the robing-room, as he put the Barrister's wig in its box, and assisted him to divest himself of his gown. "Had you come five minutes later, we should have gone."

"Really! How would that have suited silk and stuff?"

"Caused a fearful row, I am afraid, Sir. But we daren't exceed the eight hours' limit, and we must keep two or three of them for some work we have in the evening."

When Jones found himself in the Strand he noticed that the traffic was considerably less than usual. The omnibuses were few and far between, and he did not see a cab in any direction.

"Yes, Sir," replied a policeman, who was removing his band of office, preparatory to going home; "you won't find many. Eight hours' limit, Sir. Good-day, Sir. I am off myself."

The boats had ceased running; there were no trams. To pass the time he thought he would call upon the Editor, whose rooms were in Fleet Street.

"I hope I am not interrupting you," he said, as he entered the sanctum.

"Interrupting me! Why, I am delighted to see you. We have nothing to do. Mustn't exceed the eight hours, and they were up at two o'clock. But how did you get in?"

"Oh, the Publisher opened the door, and then returned to a rubber of whist he was playing with the Reader, the Manager, and the Head of the Advertisement Department. I was introduced to them all. Then I watched a tug of war going on in the composing-room between the Compositors on the one side, and the Machinists and Foundry-men on the other, and came up here."

"Very glad to see you, my dear fellow!" and the Editor once again shook hands.

A little later Jones entered a restaurant, but he was refused dinner. The eight hours' limit had cleared off the cooks and the waiters. Half-starving, he purchased a stall for the theatre. For a while his thoughts were distracted by the excellence of the performance. Suddenly, in the most interesting part of the play, the curtain was prematurely dropped.

"Very sorry," said the Stage Manager, addressing the audience from behind the footlights, "but, Ladies and Gentlemen, we have no option. We had a rehearsal this morning of the new piece, and, taking this into consideration, our limit is reached. I may seize this opportunity for regretfully announcing that as two performances take more than eight hours, the customary Saturday Matinée will for the future be discontinued."

The orchestra played a few bars of the National Anthem, and the theatre cleared. Jones strolled on to the Embankment, and, the evening being pleasant, took a seat. Beside him was a student reading for examination, a clergyman thinking out a sermon, and an artist taking a rough sketch. Jones took out a brief himself and opened it.

"It's no business of mine," said a policeman off duty, who happened to be passing, "but you gents will get yourselves into trouble if you exceed the limit."

"I will go home," exclaimed Jones; and he walked to his suburban villa. But the place was locked up, and the servants did not dare to open the door to him, as they had finished their legal spell of labour hours before.

"Don't feel well," he murmured. "Will call upon my Doctor."

"Now, my dear Sir," said the medical man, as Jones appeared before him, "you know I must not prescribe for you. The eight hours' limit was reached at four."

"Then, I suppose I must die. Will the Act allow me to do that?"

"You, as a Barrister, ought to know best, my dear Sir. What is your idea?"

"My idea?" echoed the considering Jones. "Well, I should say—— But, stay; I am not entitled to give a professional opinion until to-morrow morning! Still, offhand I may observe, that such an illegal death would savour of positive suicide; but it would not matter very much, as under existing circumstances suicide in some form or other seems to me inevitable!" And Jones was right!

MAXIMS FOR THE BAR. NO. V.

"A Curate may be cross-examined with comparative safety."

IN THE KNOW.

(By Mr. Punch's Own Prophet.)

Those who have carefully read the remarks which I have thought it my duty to make in these columns from time to time, must have reaped a golden harvest at Newmarket last week. It is not easy, of course, in these milk-and-water days to say what one means in sufficiently plain words. Personally, I have always been mild in my language, and have often been reproached on this score. But I have always found it possible, without using vulgar and exaggerated abuse, to express the contempt which, in common with every right-minded man, I feel for the grovelling herd of incompetent boobies, whose minds are as muddy as the Rowley Mile after a thunderstorm. Surefoot was always a favourite of mine. Two months ago I said, "if Surefoot can only face the starter for the Two Thousand firmly, he will probably get off well, and ought not to be far behind the first six at the finish. As to Le Nord, though he is not my colour, he is not likely to be last." Only a mooncalf, with a porridge-bowl instead of a head, could have mistaken these remarks.

So Sir Thomas Chucks has joined the ranks of aristocratic owners. Here is a chance for the dilly-dallying professors of humbug to distinguish themselves. What can be expected from a stable which always runs its trials at one o'clock in the morning, with nobody but Mr. Jeremy to look on? No doubt we shall hear all about it in the columns which Mr. J. devotes to the edification of dough-faced, gruel-brained noodles who accept him as their prophet.

Catawampus ran well last week. With two stone less and a Calyx-eyed saddle-bar, he would have shown up even better. Whenever the barometer goes up two points Catawampus must be remembered. He was foaled in a ditch on the old North Road, somewhere between London and York, and having remained there or thereabouts for a month, may be considered a good stayer.

The Empire in the Time of Severus.—Wonderful Juggler at the Empire, with a name that's not to be trifled with, Severus. Some nights he may be better than on others, but you'll be delighted if you just catch him in the Juggler vein.

The Over-rated Rate-payers who fear the rising of the Rates more than almost any other rising, express a hope that the L. C. C. will be economical, and that Farrer may be "Nearer."

UNCERTAINTIES OF ARITHMETIC.

Schoolmaster. "Yes; but look here, my Boy. Suppose I were to lend your Father Five Hundred Pounds, let us say,—without Interest,—but on condition that he should pay me Ten Pounds a Week. How much would he still Owe me in Two Months?"

New Boy. "Five Hundred Pounds, Sir!"

Schoolmaster. "Tut! Tut! My Boy, you don't know the First Principles of Arithmetic!"

New Boy. "You don't know my Father, Sir!"

PRIMROSE'S PEEP-SHOW.

(Vide Lord Rosebery's resumé of the year's work of the London County Council.)
Master Bull loquitur:—

Humph! Show is very passable, no doubt;

And as you pull the strings, my clever Showman,

'Tis clear that you know what you are about,

Sense's sworn friend, and babbling folly's foeman.

The slides, as worked by you, seem mighty fine,

A trifle vague, perhaps, in composition,

Sloppy in colouring, and weak in line,

As is the civic peep-show's old tradition;

Still there is graphic vigour here and there,

Perspective, and a general sense of "movement."

On the old "Shirker" Show, 'tis only fair

To own, it evidences some improvement.

Plenty of slides! there is no doubt of that;

In fact one questions if there are too many.

Yes, I shall find when you pass round the hat,

The price is more than the old-fashioned Penny.

I pay my money and I take my—choice?

Well no, it won't quite fit, that fine old patter.

Still, if your Show proves good, I shall rejoice;

A trifling rise in fee won't greatly matter,

If 'tis not too "progressive" (as you say).

To stump up for sound work I'm always willing;

But though, of course, a Penny may not pay,

One wants a first-class Peep-Show for a Shilling!

Some of your novel slides are rather nice,

Some of them, on the other hand, look funny.

I felt grave doubts about 'em once or twice.

I don't want muddlers to absorb my money.

However, as I said, 'tis very clear

As puller of the strings you yield to no man.

The Show seems promising, if rather dear,

But anyhow it has a first-rate Showman!

"So Engelish you know!" exclaims the Baron De B. W., on seeing the advertisement of Dr. Louis Engel's new book from Handel to Hallé. "It will be interesting," says the Baron, "to note how much of Handel's popularity was due to that particular inspiration of genius which caused him to use the name of the future composer and pianist in one of his greatest works, namely, the celebrated 'Hallelujah Chorus.' For this magnificent effort would have been only half the chorus it is without 'Hallé' to commence it."

GRANDOLPH GOODFELLOW;

Or, Puck at the Spigot.
(Shakspeare adapted to the situation)

Bung. Either I mistake your shape and making quite,

Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite

Called Grandolph Goodfellow. Are you not he

That did your best to spill Lord S-l-sb-ry?

Gave the Old Tory party quite a turn,

And office with snug perquisites did spurn?

And now you'd make Strong Drink to bear no barm

(Or proper profit.) You would do us harm.

Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sly Puck,

Are right; you always bring your friends bad luck.

Are you not he?

Puck. By Jove, thou speak'st aright;

I am that merry wanderer full of spite.

I jest unto the Plebs and make it smile.

Old, fat, and bean-fed Tories I beguile,

And lead them to a Democratic goal.

Now I am "going for" the flowing bowl.

E'en W-lfr-d owns I am "upon the job."

I mean to save the workman many a "bob."

But, lessening his chance of toping ale,

The Witler tells his pals the saddest tale.

Bacchus for his true friend mistaketh me,

Then step I from his side, down topples he,

And "Traitor!" cries, and swears I did but chaff,

And the Teetotallers hold their sides and laugh,

And chortle in their joy, and shout, and swear

That Grandolph Goodfellow's a spirit rare.

But room, old boy, the Second Reading's on.

Bung. He is a trickster:—Would that he were gone!

MR. PUNCH'S DICTIONARY OF PHRASES.

Social.

"Dear me, how surprisingly your voice has strengthened since I last heard you sing;" i.e., "Roars like a town-bull, and fancies himself a Lablache!"

"I saw quite a ring round your picture at the Academy to-day;" i.e., "If only he had heard them laugh!"

"Won't you stop and have some lunch?" i.e., "Couldn't help asking him, as the confounded luncheon-bell rang a peal; but if he has any manners or consideration he'll say, 'No, thank you,' and go."

"I know your face so well—but I am such a bad hand at names;" i.e., "Never saw him before in my life!"

"Pray allow me to get it;" i.e., "Catch me moving!"

"You know you can trust me implicitly;" i.e., "May be a good story to tell."

"He has such wonderful wit;" i.e., "An unfailing flow of rudeness which he calls repartee."

"Rather satirical, yes: but she has marvellous insight into character;" i.e., "She has been complimenting me."

Platformulars.

"These, then, are the arguments;" i.e., "They're all yawning—must end somehow."

"A crushing reply;" i.e., a retort discourteous, in which all the points of the attack are adroitly evaded.

"After the magnificent oration to which we have just listened with so much delight, I feel that anything that I can say must be in the nature of an anti-climax;" i.e., "Confound him! Why will he take all the 'fat' to himself, and cut the ground from under a fellow's feet?"

"I have the greatest possible pleasure in presiding over this magnificent assembly on this memorable occasion;" i.e., "Place is like a malodorous oven, and I wish to goodness it were all over."

Parliamentary.

"I appeal to that consideration which the House always extends to a new Member, &c.;" i.e., "Mean to make them sit up a bit, but must come the conventional modest."

"The Honourable and Gallant Gentleman has fulfilled his task with all the ability that might naturally be expected;" i.e., "With none worth mentioning."

"I rise to order;" i.e., "To raise disorder."

Epistolatory.

"Let me be the first, dear, to congratulate you on your well-merited good fortune;" i.e., "She has the deuce's own luck, and doesn't deserve it."

"Thank you so much for your beautiful present, which I shall value for its own sake as well as for the giver's;" i.e., "Wouldn't give twopence for the two of 'em."

"So good of you to send me your new book. I shall lose no time in reading it;" i.e., "No; not a single second."

At a Dance.

"So you prefer to stand out of this dance, dear?" i.e., "Trust her for being a willing 'Wallflower.'"

"Shall we sit this out on the stairs?" i.e., "I don't want to dance, and I do want to spoon."

A Little Music.

"Well, dear, the only song I can remember, without music, is 'Gasping'—but I'll try that, if you like;" i.e., "Her great song, which she has been grinding up to sing to—or rather at—young Fitz-Floss. Won't she be wild?"

"Well, your Beethoven bits are lovely, dear, we know; but suppose you give us something lighter, for once;" i.e., "Beethoven, indeed! Bessie Bellwood is more her style."

Channel Passage.

"Well, it may be a bit lively when we get out;" i.e., "You won't know whether you are on your head or your heels in ten minutes."

Curiomania.

"I've never seen such a collection of curios in my life!" i.e., "Hope I never may again!"

"I'm no great judge of such things, but I should say this specimen is unique;" i.e., "It is to be hoped so!"

"Ex-qui-site!!!" i.e., "Rubbish!"

Railroad Amenities.

"Awfully noisy carriages on this line;" i.e., "Thank goodness! The clatter has tired even his stentor throat."

"Good-bye! So sorry we don't travel farther together;" i.e., "Hooray! Now for feet up and forty winks!"

Preparing for Private Theatricals.

"I'm sure you will be a great acquisition to my little company;" i.e., "Awful stick, but a pis aller I'm afraid."

"Now if there's anything you notice not quite the thing, pray mention it. I'm not above taking a hint;" i.e., "Nor you up to giving one—of any value."

"Oh, no doubt you're right, though it's not the way Charles Mathews did it;" i.e., "That's a nasty one for you, Mr. Meddler."

"Ah, yes, I was a little off colour, perhaps; but I shall be all right on the night, you bet!" i.e., "Not going to be dictated to by you anyhow."

"Stands Scotland (Yard) where it Did?"—Yes; only more so. And how kind and thoughtful of the Government to order that the materials for building the new Police Offices should be found and fashioned by the Dartmore convicts. Quite a labour of love!

Correspondent, in Times of Saturday, showed that, in Spite of increase of population, there has been a decrease of drunkenness. In 1884-85 there were 183,221 drunken Police-court cases; but in 1887-88 only 166,366. Anti-temperance persons will look upon this as "a Drop too much."

Pictures of the Year that no Patron of Art can possibly Overlook.—Those that are sky'd.

"SCOTS, WHA HAE."

(New Version. Sung at the Opening of the Edinburgh International Exhibition, May 1.)

Scots, wha hae at Paris bled,

Scots, wham Cook hath aften led,

Welcome to the white, green, red,

Of your ain Great Exhibition.

Now's the day and now's the hour;

Though you have no Eiffel Tower!

See the bawbees pile and pour;

All the world shall crowd to see!

Wha will want to pinch and save?

Wha to see it will not crave?

Wha will not declare it brave?

Far from Edinbro' let him flee!

Wha will wish to see the sight

Of the graund electric light,

And the "Kiowatt" of might?

Caledonian! on wi' me!

Ninety acres on the plain!

Almost apes the Show by Seine.

Won't folk flock by tram and train

To our International Show.

Let the Incandescents glow,

Sixteen thousand, row on row!

Sandy all the world will show

He will beat the best—or die!

MODERN TYPES.

(By Mr. Punch's Own Type-Writer.)
No. XI.—THE YOUNG GUARDSMAN.

The Young Guardsman believes himself to be not only the backbone of the British Army, its vital centre and support, but also its decorative master-piece. Other officers, of whom the Guardsman is wont to speak with a vague pity as belonging to "some line regiment," are not apt to sympathise with him in this exalted estimate of his military position and functions. They are accustomed to urge, that he is to the general body of officers as gold lace is to the uniform he wears, a gaudy ornament fashioned for show and useless for the practical work of the military profession. Doubtless "these are the forgeries of jealousy," or, if true at all, they are true only for that limited period of the Guardsman's existence, during which he pays more attention to his own dressing than to that of his men, and imagines that the serious objects of life are attained when he has raised the height of his collar by half an inch, or invented a new fashion of transfixing a silk scarf with a diamond pin. In fact it is during the first flush of his youth that he displays those characteristics which have specialised the Guardsman amongst the golden lads who afterwards come to the dust of middle-age and a colonelcy.

It is by no means necessary that the Young Guardsman should enjoy an aristocratic parentage, provided it be a wealthy one; nor is it essential that he should have made his mark at school as a scholar, an athlete, or a social success. Indeed, nothing is more common than to hear a former school-fellow express himself in terms of derisive amazement when he is informed that So-and-So is now in the Guards. "What, that scug?" he will observe with immeasurable contempt, and will proceed to express his surprise how one who neither played cricket, nor football, nor rowed to any purpose can possibly add distinction to Her Majesty's Brigade of Guards. These observations, it should be said, however disrespectful they may be towards a particular individual, undoubtedly show a strong feeling of veneration for the repute of the Guards in general. It must be added too that on his side the Young Guardsman is not slow to repay, and in doing so to aggravate, the contempt of the burly athlete who may have kicked him at school, and towards whom he now assumes a lordly air of irritating patronage hardly endurable, but not easily to be resented, by one who feels it to be totally unwarranted.

The Guardsman, then, will have passed through school without emerging in any way from the common ruck of ordinary boys. He will have left at a comparatively early age in order that his education may no longer be neglected, and will have betaken himself to the fostering care of one of the numerous establishments which exist to prove that the private coach Codlin is superior to the public school Short. Hence, if his abilities are exceptionally brilliant, he will have passed into Sandhurst. Failing this, however, the Militia is a refuge and a stepping-stone. In any case he will find himself in due time the owner of Her Majesty's Commission and the largest head-dress in the British Army. In short he will become a Guardsman in full bloom.

And now he begins to reap a plentiful harvest of easy social distinctions, in the sowing of which he himself has borne no part. He may be, though to be sure he is not always, the feeblest and most vapid of created beings, but he will be none the less courted and flattered by the numerous band who fix their eyes and their hearts on social position without any regard to the particular atom of humanity by which it may chance to be filled. Hostesses shower invitations upon him, he slides easily into the membership of many Clubs both social and sporting, tradesmen and money-lenders solicit with humility the supreme honour of being his creditors, and all the world, as he counts it, smiles upon him and is ready to make much of him. A man would require to be made of exceptionally stern stuff not to yield to many of the temptations thus spread before him, and the Young Guardsman, although he is as martial as the occasional wearing of his uniform can make him, is by no means stern. He yields, however, with an admirable grace, and although his nationality and his profession both forbid him to display an excess of enthusiasm, it may be said of him that he tolerates his pleasures and does not despise the amusements for which a musketry course at Hythe or an occasional encampment at Pirbright seems to give him an additional zest.

He is often to be seen at dances, and although he does not dance much and is not much of a dancer, it is impossible to complain of any lack of vigour in his steps as he tears round the room with his partner in double-quick time. Having done this he will descend to supper with a young married lady whom he is temporarily honouring with his attentions, and will impress her with the maturity of his views of the world. He will hint to her that, after all, there is more to be said for Don Juan than is commonly supposed, and that "by Gad, a feller who chucks away his chances when there are no end of 'em runnin' after him is a fool dontcherknow, and you may tell 'em I said so." After he has imparted this information he will re-conduct her upstairs, and will then leave in a hansom preceded by a tall cigar, for which he has paid half-a-crown.

At Maidenhead, too, on Sundays during the summer the Young Guardsman is a conspicuous object. Robed in spotless flannels, with the Brigade Colours round his straw hat and his neck, he may be seen propelling a punt with much perseverance and some accuracy to Boulter's Lock and back. Afterwards he will dine with the comfortable conviction that he has had very violent exercise.

Of the Young Guardsman's dress much might be said. It is spotless and careful and is evidently the result of deep thought. Yet, if a fault may be hinted, it errs like his cigar on the side of exaggeration. A frock-coat should fit well, but his is too tight. Fashion no doubt demands that in the daytime a cascade of silk or satin should pour itself into a lake of shirt-front, but the cascade need not be a Niagara nor the lake an Ontario. It is true of course that at night no young man who respects himself and values the opinion of his friends would dream of wearing a white tie of any but the butterfly pattern. Still there are butterflies and butterflies, and the Young Guardsman's model would seem to be rather one of the huge tropical varieties than any known to our northern climate. These, however, are but trifling defects which scarcely detract from the shining and ornamental completeness of his appearance.

It is remarkable how readily the Young Guardsman imagines himself to be an adept in the mysteries of the turf. With a light heart and a heavy betting-book he faces the hoary sinners who lay the odds. Nor is it until he has lost more money than his father can well afford that he discovers that the raw inexperience even of a Young Guardsman is unequally matched against the cool head, and the long purse, of the professional book-maker. In vain does he call in the aid of the venal tipster. The result is always the same, and he returns home from every race-meeting without ever, to use his own phrase, "getting home" at all. Indeed, if they may be believed, the subalterns of "the Brigade" never vary from a condition which they always describe as stony-broke.

A little later in his career the Young Guardsman will find himself temporarily on the staff of a General appointed to command a force of Volunteers during some Easter manœuvres. He will wear a white belt, the frock-coat of his undress uniform and a cocked hat, and will believe himself to be a Staff officer. He will perform his duties not without efficiency, but will scarcely take enough trouble to remove from the minds of the Volunteers to whom he issues orders, that idea of patronage which is to a rightly constituted Volunteer what a red rag is said to be to a bull. Soon after this, a war having broken out in Africa, he will volunteer for active service and will be accepted. Being after all a young man of pluck and spirit, he will pass with distinction through the hardships and dangers of the campaign. Amid the stern realities of the bivouac and the battlefield his swagger and his affectations will vanish. Returning home in this altered condition it is as likely as not that he will marry, and having served his Queen with solid credit for many years, will eventually retire with the rank of General and the well-earned respect of all who know him.

THE LAST OF THE BACILLI.

(Feuilleton of the "Medical Record," April, 1900.)

In a gloomy and inaccessible cavity, situated in the diaphragm of the human body in which he had made his home, stood the last of the Bacilli. His friends and his brothers, the companions of his innocent childhood, the associates of his boyish days, his fellow-adventurers in manhood's prime—all, all had perished. Some had been ruthlessly hunted down by a skilled body of German assassins; others had died under the cruel attacks of the pestilent Frenchman. The Cholera Bacillus, the king of them all, was the first to fall; typhoid and typhus, small-pox and measles, fits of convulsions or of sneezing, coughs and catarrhs, had all been deprived of Bacilli and slain. The Wart Bacillus had fought hard and maintained himself for a long time on a precarious footing of fingers and thumbs; but he too had been extirpated. The Thirst Bacillus had given up the ghost yesterday, after keeping up for years a guerilla warfare disguised either as a green rat or a striped snake. And now the mighty Hunger Bacillus stood alone, gloomy and defiant. But he knew his hour had come. "Better death," he shouted, "than the microscope!" and with these words drew his sword and dashed forth into the darkness. There was a yell, followed by the sound of steel beaten against steel, then a blood-curdling gurgle, and all grew still.

"He was a gallant scoundrel, but my quick riposte confused him," observed Signor Succi, who entered the apartment, wiping his blade on the advertisement of a new beef-essence, and taking copious draughts of his elixir.

Thus died, as he had lived, dismal, desperate, degraded, the Hunger Bacillus, the last of his race.

(From another Column of the same Paper.)

We rejoice to hear that the Act for making Succination compulsory is to be energetically enforced. Public Succinators have now been appointed to every district, and every parent omitting to have the operation performed upon his infant within two months after birth is to be rigorously prosecuted. Henceforth, as we may remind our readers, anybody "complaining of hunger shall be liable on conviction to be imprisoned for not less than six calendar months, with or without hard labour." We quote the words of clause 3 of the Act.

ALLOWED TO STARVE.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Mr. James Payn has the peculiar gift of writing a novel as if he were telling you a story vivâ voce and interesting you in it, not only by reason of its plot, but also by his way of narrating it. There is a spontaneity about his style which to the Baron is most refreshing: it is like listening to two clever men, one of whom is telling the story, and the other is enlivening it with his sharp and appropriate comments, always dropped in parenthetically. Mr. Payn is a good hand at keeping a secret, and it is not for the Baron de B. W. to tell beforehand what the novelist keeps as a little bit up his sleeve till the last moment. Why call it The Burnt Million? To what tremendous conflagration involving such a fearful loss of life does the title point? The story will interest the Million and delight Thousands. Excellent as is the dialogue generally, the Baron ventures to doubt whether any ordinary person (and no one of these characters is a genius) ever begins a sentence with "Nay." Anent The Burnt Million, the Baron's advice to persons in search of a novel is, "Tolle, lege!" Also the Baron says, get La Revue de Famille at Hachette's. Un Foyer de Théâtre, by M. Audebrand, for all interested in the history of the French Drama, is delightful reading. Don't miss Causerie Littéraire, by Mr. Charles Benoist.

The Baroness says, read "Poor Mr. Carrington" in Temple Bar.

Lippincott's Magazine this month is heartily welcome,—we should say, Bret Harte-ily welcome. Capital story, by B. H., "A Sappho of Green Sprigs."

(Signed)

Baron de Book Worms & Co.

ODDS ON THE BEDMAKERS.

[A proposal for the abolition of Bedmakers is being discussed in Cambridge.]

Chorus of Undergraduates:—

There are things we could spare; we could watch without weeping

A Tutor's extinction, a Dean's disappearance.

And Professors who drone while their pupils are sleeping,

Though they went at a loss, we should welcome the clearance.

And Proctors who blandly demand six-and-eightpence,

And, while toiling themselves, send all petticoats spinning;

And Porters who tick off our names for our gate-pence;

And Bull-dogs who help to withhold us from sinning.

And the juvenile Don who thinks "Dons should be firmer,"

And the elderly Don who is painfully nervous—

We could see them depart without even a murmur,

So our Bedmakers stay to amuse and to serve us.

We have watched, while we trembled, the pomps and the maces,

Stern emblems of rule, with the Esquire Bedell come;

We have heard of the Senate, its edicts and graces,—

Take the lot, if you like, you may have them and welcome.

But the "Bedder"? No, no. Come, we offer a wager:

We will bet she survives who of beds is the maker!

Any answer? Not one; for, in spite of her age, her

Attractions are such that there isn't a taker.

Measures and Men.—M. Jacques Bertillon has been lecturing before the Anthropological Society—(the only Society where anthropoi are logical)—on his method of "identifying criminals by comparing their measures with those of convicted prisoners on the prison registers." Ahem! How about novel Home Rule Measures compared with those of past Kilmainhamites?

THE QUEEN'S SERVICE.

"I see your Servants wear Cockades now, Miss Shoddson."

"Yes. Pa's just become a Member of the Army and Navy Stores."

L'ENFANT TERRIBLE!

Chorus of Passengers, expostulating:—

Stop, William, stop! Your game is not a game we can enjoy!

Your father's son should not thus play the Little Vulgar Boy!

This is not Margate, William mine, and ours is not a crew

Of ordinary trippers, packed aboard the Lively Loo

For a shillingsworth of suffering on a wild and wobbling sea.

Stop, William! You'll upset the boat! Why can't you let it be?

Our boat has braved a many storms. It's old and may be crank;

But though it sometimes sprang a leak, it never wholly sank.

We are not packed so close to-day as we have oft been packed.

Against some stiffer gales than this we've weathered and we've tacked;

But, William, though our craft tossed wild, though loud the winds have roared,

We've never, never had so bad a boy as you on board!

Sit down, now do, you pickle, you! Don't dance upon that thwart,

And see-saw in that sort of way. We want to get to port,

Not Davy Jones's Locker, Sir. "These roarers" are wild things,

As Shakspeare in The Tempest says, and do not care for Kings;

To keep them down and bale them out has always been our aim;

But you, you just play larks with them. What is your little game?

You, young, the latest chap on board, but of a sound old stock

Of Royal navigators, do you think it right to mock

All nautical traditions in this reckless kind of way,

And greet these waves, as Byron did, as though with them you'd play?

They're dangerous playfellows, boy; tiger-cubs hardly in it

For riskiness! I say, do stop! You'll swamp us in a minute.

Look at your Crown! Such head-gear, boy, is seldom a tight fit,

And oscillations sometimes act as Notices to Quit!

What would your grandfather have said to see you sway and prance?

Sit still, lad, you alarm us all. Just look at Madame France!

She's thought a fairish sailor, and has doffed her Crown, but see,

She's clutching at the gunwale, too, as nervous as can be.

Whilst, as for dear Señora Spain and her poor little charge,