PUNCH,
OR, THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOLUME 98.

APRIL 19, 1890.

IN THE LANE.

Monday.—Carmen exceptionally excellent. Miss Zélie de Lussan, gifted with a light, pleasant voice, sang admirably. Can't have "Trop de Zélie." Mr. Barton McGuckin, as Don Jim-along-José, did all that can be done with this weak-minded soldier. No holes to be picked in Mr. McG.'s performance, though there was a portion of his costume that would have been the better for the attention of Signor Soanso, the Spanish tailor. Perhaps he is one of the "Renters" of Drury Lane. The strongest and most novel situation was the entrance of a horse, which, like the old woman who "lived on nothing but victuals and drink," "wouldn't be quiet," and nearly gave poor Carmen fits. If it had given Mr. Barton McGuckin fits—a pair of them—my previous allusion to the tailor would have lacked a tangible basis of fact. Fancy Carmen frightened by an ordinary horse, not even a dray-horse, of which no Carmen would have been afraid!

The Garden Scene from the Lane.

Tuesday and Friday.—Faust. Signor Runcio, as Faust, up to the mark. Military band of soldiers returned from the wars had apparently conquered the drum of a British regiment. Signor Abramoff (good as Mephistopheles) showed his generous disposition by sharing his red light with Martha when he was talking to her.

Wednesday.—Romeo and Juliet, repetition of last week when the season commenced with Gonoud's masterpiece. Scenery tested the resources of some of the greatest Drury Lane successes. The pantomime in the ball-room was particularly excellent and noticeable.

Thursday.—Mignon, represented by charming Miss Moody. Supported by the dullest of Lotharios, Mr. F. H. Celli. Wilhelm played by a very small tenor—in fact one who looked like a Child. The cast good all round, and a crowded house enthusiastic. One of the best revivals of the season.

Saturday.—Wallace's Lurline in the evening, after Carmen in the morning. "Troubador" just as enchanting as he was twenty years ago. "The silver river," too, "flows on" as sweetly as ever. Good house testifies to the love we all have for home-made music. On the whole a satisfactory week from every point of view. So far—all's well.

"A SOCIETY FOR THE STUDY OF INEBRIETY."

(Notes by Mr. Punch's Own Reporter.)

On the last occasion of the Meeting of the above Society a most interesting paper was read by Professor James Jambes, F.R.Z.S., describing a series of experiments to which, in the cause of Science, he had recently submitted himself. Commencing by comparatively small quantities of alcoholic stimulant, he gradually increased the doses until he reached a maximum of three bottles of Brandy and one of Green Chartreuse per diem, abandoning all other work during the period embraced by the experiments. After a fortnight of patient research he was rewarded by the discovery in his immediate neighbourhood of an abundance of blackbeetles, which he was unable to refer to any known species of Orthoptera. These were succeeded by reptiles and beasts of various kinds and colours, specimens of which, owing to their evasiveness, he much regretted to have been unsuccessful in securing. After increasing the dose to two bottles daily, he was able to detect the presence of rodents in large quantities. Subsequently these creatures assumed the most surprising shapes, while their colouring was frequently gorgeous in the extreme. He had made some brandy-and-water sketches of the most remarkable—though he had to apologise for the drawing being less accurate and clear than he could have wished, as the conditions were generally unfavourable for scientific observation. Still, they afforded a very fair idea of the principal phenomena which he had met. (Cheers.) The Professor, in concluding, remarked that he himself had never been a Materialist, and that, after the experiences that attended the addition of the third bottle of brandy and the Green Chartreuse to his diurnal allowance, he could only confess that, in the words of the Poet, there were more—many more—things in heaven and earth than had been dreamed of in his philosophy. Some of the imps, for instance, that he had noticed on the foot of his bed, he should never forget. He must ask indulgence for any short-comings both in the manner and matter of his contribution, on the ground that he was still suffering from severe indisposition, in consequence of the ardour with which his researches had been pursued. He felt that he was still only on the threshold, but he was fascinated by the glimpses he had already obtained of the strange and wonderful things with which the study of Advanced Inebriety would make the humblest of us increasingly familiar. (Great cheering.)

The reading of the paper was followed by a discussion, in which Dr. Loschen said, that he was in a position from his own experience to corroborate most of the statements in the very interesting account to which they had just listened. He thought the learned Professor had, if anything, rather underrated the dimensions of some of the snakes. He could see a particularly fine specimen at that moment under the Chairman's table, and would postpone any further remarks he was about to make.

Professor Squiffie said he had not as yet brought his experiments so far as the last speakers. He was not a Naturalist himself. His line was Optics. He described some interesting cases of Double Refraction, Mock Suns, and Lunar Rainbows, that had come under his notice, before sitting down with some suddenness on the floor.

Mr. Staggers, F.H.S., R.C.V.S., said that most of his time had been devoted to the study of Seismatics. It was a fact not generally known that "earth tremors" were of almost nightly occurrence after eleven P.M. Some persons refused to believe that the world went round the sun, but he had seen it do so several times in the course of a single minute.

Mr. Orrers wished to know whether any member present had formed any theory respecting the fantastic attire, particularly in the matter of head-dresses, affected by the fauna encountered in the more advanced stages of Inebriety. Why, for example, should kangaroos, especially in Piccadilly, present themselves in the bonnets usually worn by Salvation lasses? And again, what natural affinity was there between the common rabbit and a fez cap? He asked the question because it had been upon his mind a good deal of late.

Mr. D. T. Jumper said he merely desired to make one remark with regard to the pink rhinoceros, which Professor James—or, if he might take the liberty of so describing him, "dear old Jem Jambes"—had mentioned as having found in his bath. Speaking personally, he had never come across the pink variety of these interesting pachyderms. He had seen them green, or striped,—but not pink. Was it not just possible that his distinguished and excellent friend had been misled by some deficiency in his eyesight or the light on this occasion? With regard to imps, both blue and spotted, he could only say——but he was compelled to stop here, as he had barely time to catch the last train to his Retreat.

Mr. Booser said he wasn't scientific fler, like some other flers, still he flattered himself he was fler that knew as much about Inebriety as most flers, and if there was any fler there liked doubt his word, give him the lie—they understood what give him the lie meant—he repeated—give him the lie, why, what he wanted to know was, why didn't they have courage of their opinions? They knew where find him, and if they didn't—he knew where find them. (Uproar.)

The Meeting then broke up in some confusion, as the Chairman, having removed his boots during the proceedings, was unable to propose the customary vote of thanks to Professor Jambes, who left the hall in a state of considerable excitement in consequence.

The Art Kaleidoscope may undoubtedly be found at 160, New Bond Street, where the Messrs. Dowdeswells are everlastingly giving it a turn. Before you have time to get tired of one show, the turn is made, and another reigns in its place. Yesterday it was Royal Berkshire, to-day it is pictures principally of the French School. There are some fine works by Corot, which, however, did not justify a weak-minded critic in calling the show "the Corotid Art-ery." Also examples of Monticelli, Segantini the Italian, Daubigny, Troyon, Muhrman, and other notable painters.

THE ONLY REMEDY.

Home Sec. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Why leave it to Me!"

Mr. P. (sympathetically). "Why, indeed? But I don't see any Help for it till we get a Court of Criminal Appeal."

THE ONLY REMEDY.

Pity a poor Home Secretary! Verily

His days are hard, his nights can scarce wag merrily;

But of all burdens on his mind distracted,

Greatest must be that dread responsibility

Where sense of justice wars with sensibility.

Punch hardly thinks the two have interacted

This time with quite ideal force and fitness,

And that the Public doubts, let the Press witness!

A loathsome story, sordid, brutal, sickening!

Dull callousness to smug contrition quickening

Under the spur of an ignoble terror,

A hope scarce less ignoble—in expression,

At least. Yes, calm judicial self-possession

Is difficult, most easy trimming error;

But compromise with claims conflicting here,

Is scarce the course of equity one must fear.

The logic of it does not stand forth clearly;

The public conscience fidgets, and feels queerly.

Yes, to be arbiter, by law's compulsion,

In such a case, with issues so immense,

Is hard, no doubt; the public common sense

Against the arrangement turns with strong revulsion;

And the right remedy, as all must feel,

Is in a Court of Criminal Appeal!

EXTREMES MEET!

Hearty Luncher. "This Fasting is all Bosh! Robert, another Plate of Pork and another Pint of Stout. I'm going to see Succi this afternoon!"

SONG SENTIMENTIANA.

(A Delightful "All-the-Year-Round" Resort for the Fashionable Composer.)
Example III.—Concerning The Lover's objection to being hard on a Person.

I love you so! I love you so!

It's funny, but I do—

In spite of what my parents know,

And what they say, of you!

No honest folks will near you go—

But wherefore should I shrink?

I only know I love you so,

Whatever they may think!

I love you so! I love you so!

As I have sung before—

Although the heart you have to show

Is rotten to the core!

They say you oft to prison go;

But wherefore my dismay?

I only know I love you so!

I don't care what they say!

I love you so! I love you so!

As I will sing again.

(In face of all the bills you owe,

It's awfully insane!)

What boots it that you are my foe?

Should that my passion mar?

I only know I love you so!—

No matter what you are!

I love you so! I love you so!

As still again I'll sing,

And sing a thousand times, although

You stole my ruby ring!

But what care I for suchlike show,

So long as I have thee?

I love you so! I love you so!

That's good enough for Me!

FIRST APPEARANCE OF THE SWISS-BACK RAILWAY.

(By Our Easter Eggsperimentalist.)

I have no hesitation in asserting that Lynton and Lynmouth are frequently called the English Switzerland. I have seen such an announcement made in the local Guide-books, and heard the opinion adopted by many of the inhabitants. I am inclined to think that the name is not a misnomer, for certainly the twin villages, with their miniature manor-houses and cottage-like country-seats, are not unsuggestive of a German box of toys. But there is very little of the foreigner in the inhabitants. Rarely have I seen so much enthusiasm exhibited as on the occasion of the opening of the Cliff Railway, an event which came off on Easter Monday. The conveyance in question was suggestive of the Switchback, or perhaps of the Swissback, when local surroundings are taken into consideration. The inaugural programme was a long one. We had a procession, with some eccentric mummers garbed as "Ancient Foresters," an opening ceremony, with a Royal salute, fired by three Coastguardsmen, a banquet at the Valley of Rocks Hotel, life-boat exercise, and, finally, a grand display of fireworks. I took part in every function. I applauded the Ancient Foresters, in white beards and brown heads of hair. I was the earliest to use the railway. I made a speech at the banquet, I helped to man the life-boat, and, finally, I was the first to cry "O-o-o-o-o-h!" at the initial rocket of the grand display. So I think I may be allowed to say that I know something about the place and its inhabitants. Imprimis, Lynton has an excellent hotel, in the shape of the one to which I have already referred. Secondly, it has a great benefactor in the person of worthy Mr. Newnes, M. P., the genial and clever Chairman of the Cliff Railway Company. Thirdly, the loveliness of the scenery is greatly enhanced by the fact that practically there are no residents (probably not half a dozen) in the neighbourhood. It is true that there is a villa here and there, but none of them is large enough in itself to spoil the effect of the rocks, the cascades, and the mountain passes. I admit that when I went to Lynton I was under the impression that I was going to take part in the inauguration of some score miles of railway, opening out a new route to the Far West. That this was an erroneous idea was more my fault than my misfortune. After trying on foot an ascent from Lynmouth to Lynton, I came to the conclusion that this line of railway was of far greater importance than any other in existence. That the track was rather less than a thousand feet, instead of being rather more than a million miles, I considered merely a matter of detail. Should it be necessary some day to dispense with the coach-journey from Barnstaple to Lynton—a journey which, on account of the exercise in which the travellers are encouraged to indulge on foot, must be of the greatest possible benefit to their health—why then the railway could be extended from point to point. All that would be required would be proportionately computed additional capital. The formula would run as follows:—If 900 feet of railway from Lynmouth to Lynton costs so much, 18 miles of railway from Lynton to Barnstaple will cost so much more. The simplest thing in the world! And with this practical suggestion for the future I conclude my report, with the observation that the twin villages of Lynton and Lynmouth deserve the greatest possible prosperity. Nature, represented by "Ragged Jack," the "Devil's Cheese Wring," and Watersmeet, is lovely beyond compare; and Art could have no better illustration than that furnished by the unsurpassed resources of the Valley of Rocks Hotel.

Hughie and Regie.—"On what sort of paper should a fellah who's awfully gone on a gal, don'tcher-know, write to his mash, eh?" "Why—on—papier mashé, of course." "Thanks awfully." (Goes off to get some.)

"It's going to rain to-morrow," said Mrs. R., confidently—"I am sure of it, because I always read Professor Ben Nevis's remarks in the Times. What a clever man he is, and how useful!"

Nomenclature.—Isn't it the place par excellence where umbrellas and waterproofs are in request? If not, why call it, Hayling Island?

"IN THE KNOW."

(By Mr. Punch's Prophet.)

The collapse of Gasbag can have surprised no careful reader of these columns. His public performances have been uniformly wretched, save and except on the one occasion when he defeated Ranunculus in the Decennial Pedigree Stakes at Newmarket last year, and any fool could have seen that Ranunculus had an off hind fetlock as big as an elephant's. That comes of training a good horse on Seidlitz powders and bran-mash. The muddy-minded moon-calves who chatter in their usual addle-pated fashion about the chances of Jimjams, ought to deceive nobody now that their insane folly has been exposed by me for about the thousandth time; but the general public is such a blathering dunderheaded ass that it prefers to trust itself to the guidance of men like Mr. Jeremy, who knows as much about a horse as he does about the Thirty-nine Articles. If Jimjams, with 9 lbs. advantage and a thousand sovereigns of added money, could only run a bad second to Blue Ruin, who, on the following day, romped in from The Ratcatcher in a common canter,—The Ratcatcher having simply spread-eagled The Parson over the old D. T. course, when the ground was as heavy as Rotten Row in April,—how in the name of common sense can Jimjams be expected to show up against high-class yearlings like Ballarat and Tifftoff on the Goodwin Sands, T. Y. C.? The whole thing is only another instance of the hare-brained imbecility and downright puddling folly with which the cackling herd will follow any brazen-headed nincompoop who sets up to advise them on turf matters. Jimjams has just as much chance of winning this race as Mr. Jeremy has of being Archbishop of Canterbury. Verb. sap. At any rate my readers will not be able to reproach me with not warning them in time.

The latest rumour is that Mrs. Grundy has gone lame after her trial with The Vicar. As I always predicted her break-down, I cannot say I am surprised, though I must own I should like to know what the pestilential pantaloons think of themselves who have been for months advising us to invest our money upon her. All Boozing Billy's stock have come to grief, sooner or later. I thought Lord Softed was a fool to give £5,000 for such a mangy-coated weed as Mrs. Grundy. Now I know it.

Those who want a good thing ought to keep their eyes on Toothpick. When he met Pepperpot, at a stone less than weight for age, with a baby on his back, at Esher last year, the betting being then 20 to 7 against the Harkaway filly, he showed what his true form was. Pepperpot, of course, is a rank impostor, but a careful man might do worse than put a spare threepenny-bit on Toothpick, who always runs better in a snow-storm. As for Dutchman, everybody knows he's not a flyer, and only a man whose brains are made of fish-sauce could recommend him.

ANY EXCUSE BETTER THAN NONE.

Cautious Customer. "But if he's a Young Horse, why do his Knees bend so?"

Dealer (reassuringly). "Ah, Sir, the poor Hanimal 'as been living in a Stable as was too low for 'im, and 'es 'ad to Stoop!"

"Wanted a Word!"—Lord Bury wants a word to express electric action. Anything Lord Bury deals with should be of grave import. Attempting to find a new verb is quite an undertaking—to Bury. How would "bury" do? "We buried him;" meaning, "we electrified him." "We went along Bury well;" meaning, "the progress caused by electricity was satisfactory." "We 'Buried along' at a great rate," and so forth.

ROOKY WALKER!

Sir,—Perhaps you have read the stories now being told in the Spectator about rooks and wasps as Policemen. "W.H.W.H." says that a pair of rooks were persecuted while building their nest, and that a big rook was deputed to guard them from attack—which he did, like other policemen, by employing the "beak." There is really nothing at all remarkable about this tale. Rooks are much more wonderful creatures than anybody knows about. In my own garden, for instance, there is a rook who acts as chaplain to a whole rookery. He might almost be called a "bird of pray." Every Saturday he assembles all the rooks on one large tree, and caws solemnly to them for ten minutes. I have noticed (through an opera-glass) that the congregation wears a very devout appearance. Churchwarden rooks go round while the service is proceeding, and peck any birds that seem inattentive. At the close there is a universal caw, which I believe stands for "Amen." It is a curious fact that the chaplain rook on these occasions always ornaments himself with a wisp of white grass tied round his neck, which increases his clerical aspect. I have tried to induce the rooks—by firing at them with small shot—to adopt Sunday instead of Saturday as their day of devotions, but hitherto without success. You may think the above worth publishing. It is quite true.

Yours, &c.,

Longbow.

Sir,—Here is a fact which beats "W.H.W.H.'s" rook story hollow. Rooks are keen politicians. I once saw an assembly of them—I don't know if it was the local Caw-cus or not—divide into two portions, one going to one tree, another to another, and then two elderly rooks went round, and counted both batches. After the counting was over they returned from the lobbies, and business proceeded as before. I have seen the closure very effectually put on a talkative rook.

Yours,

Veracity.

Sir,—I can confirm these tales of animal Policemen in every particular—indeed, I am able to add to them. I have often seen a couple of tom-tits, on leaving their nests for an outing, put a tom-tit constable on guard till they came back. But here is a still more remarkable circumstance. On one occasion several other tom-tits wanted to rob this deserted nest, and they actually came up to the constable and put something in his claw, after which he looked the other way while they were rifling the nest. They had bribed him! Comment is superfluous.

Yours,

Keen Observer.

Grandolph's Logic.

Your Purchase Bill is bad from top to toe—

Drop it, dear boys, then to the country go,

And say 'twas through Gladstonian ill-will

It lost that blessed boon, your bad, bad Bill!

Living and Learning.—Sir, from a paragraph in The Times about the Newfoundland Fisheries, I gather the existence of "Lobster Factories." Never knew this was an industry. Had always thought that Lobsters, like poets, were born, not made.

Yours,

A Naturalist.

L'ABBÉ INCONSTANTIN PARSONIFIED.

The first impression of A Village Priest is that, in one respect, Mr. Grundy has done well to choose the historical name of the execrable "Abbé Dubois," and bestow it on the Curé, who is meant to be the interesting hero of what, without him, would have been a sufficiently strong melodrama. The very A B C of the practice of the confessional being that everything between Priest and Penitent (even when the Penitent is impenitent) is sub sigillo, this Abbé can have, as the Grand Inquisitor in the Gondoliers sings, "No possible probable shadow of doubt, No possible doubt whatever," as to his plain duty; and yet he demands of Heaven a miracle to show him how not to do it. And to this pious request comes an answer (by limelight) which demonstrates once more how the Devil can quote Scripture to his purpose.

The Tree at the Haymarket.

Frankly, Mr. Grundy has written three Acts of a play which must have been powerful had he not extended it to five, and, had he not attempted to centre the interest on a character which, charming as an incidental sketch, is, as an essential, an excrescence. Practically the play is at an end with the finish of the Third Act. Why lug in the Abbé Constantin? And what an Abbé!!

Where are the familiar details? Where the ancient snuffbox, where his snuffy old pocket-handkerchief? And where the old well-thumbed breviary from which he is inseparable? M. Lafontaine as the Abbé Constantin, the man to the life, was never without the "old black book," under his arm. The Haymarket Abbé takes his meals without blessing himself, by way of saying grace, and fumbles about the heads of people who ask his benison, like an awkward phrenologist feeling for bumps. And what kind of an Abbé would he be who would tell a young girl that, "when she comes to be as old as he is, she will have learnt to doubt everything?" Is it characteristic of a French Abbé to complain of his housekeeper "lighting his fire with his sermons?" It would be quite in keeping with the type of an English Clergyman, who, as a rule, preaches from a written sermon; but not of a French Priest, who preaches without book or manuscript. No; the Abbé Dubois is the Abbé Constantin spoilt, a French Curé Anglicised into a pet Ritualistic Clergyman, Robert-Elsmere'd-all-over by Mr. Grundy, and finally im-parson-ated by Mr. Beerbohm Tree. Wasn't it Mr. Beerbohm Tree who, years ago, created the original of the Bath-bun-eating comical Curate, in The Private Secretary? Well, this is the same comical Clergyman grown older, and with the burden on, what he is pleased to call, his mind of a dying scoundrel's last speech and confession. The strongest objection he has to violate his sacred trust arises from the fear that such a revelation would break the heart of an exemplary old Goody Two-Shoes, for whom he has all his life long cherished a youthful love, the thought of which, and not his supernatural vocation, has sustained him, so I understood him to say, throughout his priestly career. All very pretty and "pale young Curatey," and theatrically sentimental, but don't put this man forward as the self-sacrificing hero of a Melodrama. No; the subject is best let alone. Mr. Grundy seems to have rushed in where wiser men have feared to tread, and thoroughly to have "put his foot in it," all for the sake of transplanting L'Abbé Constantin, whom he has transformed into L'Abbé In-Constantin.

The piece is beautifully put on the stage, and accepting the story as worked out by Mr. Grundy's characters, the acting is excellent all round. There are two powerful situations, one in the First Act between the Judge's son, Mr. Fred Terry, and the innocent victim, Mr. Fernandez, admirably played; and another in the Second between Mr. Terry and Miss Leclercq, also rendered with considerable power. Little Miss Norrey's shrill squeak, or scream, or whatever it is, at the end of the First Act, imperils the situation, and might be toned down with advantage, as also might her spasmodic melodramatic acting later in the piece. Mrs. Tree's is a pretty part, but not a strong one. To sum up, apart from the two situations I have cited, I should say, that what will linger in the memory of man when it runneth not to the contrary, is not the false sentiment, but the real water which fills the real watering-pot, the blossoming apple-tree, and, above all, the stolidly-chivalrous Mr. Allen as Captain of Gendarmes. By the way, the exterior of the presbytery is that of a small cottage. Excellent. The interior, representing the Abbé's sitting-room, is a large and lofty Gothic cell—a regular cell—capable of holding two such presbyteries as we have just seen from outside. But there—it is another lesson—never judge by appearances.

Probable future of the ex-Abbé In-Constantin. He marries Madame D'Arcay, and they come over to England and join the Salvation Army.

To return for the last time to the dramatis personæ, everyone who sees this play will regret that the Author has not bestowed as much pains on the character of the Captain of Gendarmes as he has on the maudlin water-pottering old Curé. The drama, after the Third Act, is lugubrious. Why not lighten the general depression by bringing on the Captain of Gendarmes to the "Boulanger March," and making him as amusing as Sergeant Lupin in Robert Macaire? The piece is well mounted, why should not the Gendarmes be also mounted? There are four or six of them. What an effect has been missed by not bringing them in on real horses, and giving them a quartette or a sestette à cheval, with a solo for the Captain! Then the Captain might know all about the murder, and he would reveal it without breaking the seal—unless it were to crack a bottle—and all would end happily. As it is, all ends miserably, or would so end, but for the Captain, whose last words before the fall of the Curtain, uttered in his best French, are "Ong Avong! Marsh!" From which it may be inferred that they are going into a dismal swamp, but it is magnificent, if not la guerre, and this cry of the Captain has a true military ring about it that gladdens the heart of

Yours ever,

Private Box.

A CHANT FOR THE COLLEGE OF SURGEONS.

[Lord Dunraven is going to introduce a Bill to reform the College of Surgeons.]

Lo! they raise the gleaming scalpels, and the fearsome feuds begin

'Twixt the Members of the College that is hard by Lincoln's Inn.

College once of Barber Surgeons, but the Barbers left the Guild

To the "Company of Surgeons," by whom we are cured or killed.

And the College grants diplomas two-and-twenty inches long;

After which, in cutting limbs off, sure the tyro can't go wrong.

He can practise all the Surgeons' art and science; worded thus

Is the motto, "Arts," the College says, "quæ prosunt omnibus."

But unless by operations he amasses store of pelf,

It is clear the arts in question will not benefit himself.

Yet the Members are not happy, and with energy they say,

They should have a voice in choosing those who over them hold sway.

Sir Morell Mackenzie slashes at the College with a will;

Lord Dunraven to his rescue comes with promise of a Bill.

Haply from this Æsculapian combat we may chance to see

Fairer future for the College, though the Doctors disagree.

News of the Emin-ent Traveller.—Mr. Stanley was received at Rome by the Marquis de Vitelleschi, who gave him some "vitels," and by the Duke de Sermoneta, who gave him a sermon. How nice to be H. M. Stanley!

From Certain Working-men to Grandolph.—-"We don't like these 'ere erpinions o' yourn, and we 'opes as you won't 'Old'em."

BARBERESSES.

"A CUT OFF THE JOINT."

Swish! swish! Sweet is the sound of steel 'gainst steel

To him who's hungering for a good square meal.

This joint is juicy, and the carver skilled,

But many plates are waiting to be filled.

The Restaurant is famed for popular prices,

A clever Cook, and oh! such whopping slices!

What wonder then that customers are clamorous,

That appetites, of good cheap victuals amorous,

Sharpen at sight of that big toothsome joint?

The carver does not wish to disappoint;

He is no Union Bumble, stingy, truculent,

He knows his dish is savoury and succulent,

That "Cut and Come again's" a pleasant motto,

But deal out "portions" all this hungry lot to?

Amphitryon feels the thing cannot be done,

Though he should slice the saddle to the bone

With all the deftness of a Vauxhall Waiter.

First come first serve! some claims are less, some greater;

Some of them may secure a well-piled plateful,

Others, though the necessity be hateful,

Empty away must go. Won't there be grumblings,

Waterings of mouths and hunger-gendered rumblings!

But the great Surplus-Joint, although a spanker,

Won't satiate all the appetites that hanker

After a solid slice of it. Cook Goschen

Of careful carving has a neatish notion,

Yet, though his skill be great, his judgment sound,

He will not make that whopping joint "go round."

"A CUT OFF THE JOINT."

A BABE O' GRACE.

[Mr. Chamberlain says that "Mr. Gladstone's Home Rule Policy was
conceived in secresy, was born in deceit, and was nurtured on evasion.">[

Poor Babe (whom kind Nurse C. so fain would throttle)

Ill was thy fate, fed from the Gladstone bottle!

Nurture less harsh had Romulus and Remus.

Nurse C. would, oh! so gladly, "Nicodemus

The bantling into Nothing." Yet it lives

And kicks and crows, and lots of trouble gives,

This happy Baby on the tree-top dangling

Whilst friends and foes about thy fate are wrangling!

When the wind blows—ah! then the world shall see

What a prophetic soul has kind Nurse C.

Its face, perchance, had been more bright and bland

Could kind Nurse C. have "brought it up by hand,"

As Mrs. Gargery did the infant "Pip."

Nay, there are some who on the hint let slip

That kind Nurse C. had never wished it slain

Had it but in another Chamber lain!

Look at Home!

Grandolph says that "Local Self-Government" should precede "Purchase." Probably he may find a little "Local Self-Government" (of tongue and temper) necessary to enable him to "purchase" the continued support of the Voters of South Paddington!

EXIT IN FUMO.

[The birthday gifts from the Emperor to Prince Bismarck include,
besides his portrait, a long and valuable pipe.]

O solace of sore hearts, soul-soothing pipe!

Was ever trail-exhausted Indian,

Tired mariner, or hungry working-man,

Or sore-tried toiler, of whatever type,

More needed comfort from thy blessed bowl

Than brooding Bismarck in his exiled hour?

He who, when storms about his land did lour,

Faced them, and rode them out, and to the goal

Of glory, and to safety's haven brought

His mighty charge! Memories of foes outfought,

And rivals out-manœuvred, stir his soul,

His strong stark soul, as there he sits and shrouds

That granite face in thick tobacco-clouds

Blown from the "long, and valuable" gift

Wherewith a grateful Master's genial thrift

Rewards the service, "long and valuable,"

Of such a Servant! Later time shall tell

The tale of that strange parting, of the schemes

That set asunder autocratic youth

And age, perchance, imperious. But, in truth,

Wise age discounts the worth of boyish dreams;

'Tis well that youth, betimes, should bear the yoke!

Maybe the Mighty Chancellor's career

Is far less like, whatever may appear,

Than the proud Emperor's plans to—end in smoke!

A QUIET DRIVE BY THE SEA.

A Brighton Bath-Chairman's Idea of a Suitable Route for an Invalid Lady.

USEFUL WARNING.

"Will you walk into my parlour?"

Said the spider to the fly.

'Twas the money-lending spider,

And "Oh no!" was the reply.

"I've read the Globe, and I'm secure,

With legs and wings still free!

No buzzi-ness with you. No! Your

'Fly-paper' won't catch me."

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

In The Splendid Spur, "Q." has given his Pegasus his head—(Queer appearance this Pegasus with Q.'s head; but, as that's not my meaning, I must mind my P's and Q's)—and has spared neither whip nor splendid spur in his wild ride. Up behind, and clinging to "Q.," we are carried onward, amid clashing of arms, booming of cannon, pealing of bells, flashing of steel; anon we stumble over rocks, tumble over cliffs, hide in secret caves, secrete ourselves, like mad Lord High Chancellors, among Woolsacks; then after fainting, stabbing, dying, crying, sighing, "Jack's all alive again," and away we gallop, like Dick Turpin on Black Bess, and we leave girls dressed as boys behind us, and provincial Joans of Arc going out fighting for Church and King; and then, just as we are hanging suspended in mid-air over an awful precipice, there is a last gallant effort, and we awake to find ourselves gasping for breath, and awake to the fact that "Q.'s Pegasus" is a nightmare. It recalls memories of Louis Stevenson's Black Arrow, but distances it by miles, while here and there its vivid descriptions are equal to some of the glowing pictures in Shorthouse's John Inglesant. The Baron hereby recommends it as a stirring work for the novel-skipper in an idle hour.

By the way, it would be difficult, to say the least of it, to prove that the slang phrase "shut up" and the Americanism "say" were never used in A.D. 1642, in the sense in which they are used in 1890, but they are scarcely characteristic of the modes of expression at that particular period.

Baron De Book-Worms.

A SONG WITH WORDS.

(Suggestively dedicated to Lord Bury.)

Oh! tell me not that you will "clic"

When I can but "electricate,"

Or, "propelected," merely "tric"

A distance I might well "volate."

For if to "Faradate" or "Volt"