Punch, or the London Charivari

Volume 98, April 26th 1890

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

MR. PUNCH'S MORAL MUSIC-HALL DRAMAS.

(CONTINUED FROM P. 145.)

No. IX.—UNDER THE HARROW.

A Conventional Comedy-Melodrama, in Two Acts.

ACT. II.—Scene—Same as in Act I.; viz., the Morning-room at Natterjack Hall. Evening of same day. Enter Blethers.

Blethers. Another of Sir Poshbury's birthdays almost gone—and my secret still untold! (Dodders.) I can't keep it up much longer ... Ha, here comes his Lordship—he does look mortal bad, that he do! Miss Verbena ain't treated him too well, from all I can hear, poor young feller!

Enter Lord Bleshugh.

Lord Bleshugh. Blethers, by the memory of the innumerable half-crowns that have passed between us, be my friend now! I have no others left. Persuade your young Mistress to come hither—you need not tell her I am here, you understand. Be discreet, and this florin shall be yours!

Blethers. Leave it to me, my Lord. I'd tell a lie for less than that, any day, old as I am!

[Exit.

Lord Bl. I cannot rest till I have heard from her own lips that the past few hours have been nothing but a horrible dream ... She is coming! Now for the truth!

[Enter Verbena.

Verbena. Papa, did you want me? (Recognises Lord B.—controls herself to a cold formality.) My Lord, to what do I owe this—this unexpected intrusion?

[Pants violently.

Lord Bl. Verbena, tell me, you cannot really prefer that seedy snob in the burst boots to me?

Verb. (aside). How can I tell him the truth without betraying dear Papa? No, I must lie, though it kills me. (To Lord B.) Lord Bleshugh, I have been trifling with you. I—I never loved you.

Lord B. I see, and all the while your heart was given to a howling cad?

Verb. And if it was, who can account for the vagaries of a girlish fancy! We women are capricious beings, you know. (With hysterical gaiety.) But you are unjust to Mr. Spiker—he has not yet howled in my presence—(aside)—though I very nearly did in his!

Lord B. And you really love him?

Verb. I—I love him. (Aside.) My heart will break!

Lord B. Then I have no more to say. Farewell, Verbena! Be as happy as the knowledge that you have wrecked one of the brightest careers, and soured one of the sweetest natures in the county, will permit. (Goes up stage, and returns.) A few days since you presented me with a cloth pen-wiper, in the shape of a dog of unknown breed. If you will kindly wait here for half-an-hour, I shall have much pleasure in returning a memento which I have no longer the right to retain, and there are several little things I gave you which I can take back with me at the same time, if you will have them put up in readiness.

[Exit.

Verbena. Oh, he is cruel, cruel! but I shall keep the little bone yard-measure, and the diamond pig—they are all I have to remind me of him!

[Enter Spiker, slightly intoxicated.

Spiker (throwing himself on sofa without seeing Verb.) I don' know how it is, but I feel precioush shleepy, somehow. P'raps I did partake lil' too freely of Sir Poshbury's gen'rous Burgundy. Wunner why they call it "gen'rous"—it didn't give me anything 'cept a bloomin' headache! However, I punished it, and old Poshbury had to look on and let me. He-he! (Examining his hand.) Who'd think, to look at thish thumb, that there was a real live Baronet squirmin' under it. But there ish!

[Snores.

Verb. (bitterly). And that thing is my affianced husband! Ah, no, I cannot go through with it, he is too repulsive! If I could but find a way to free myself without compromising poor Papa. The sofa-cushion! Dare I? It would be quite painless ... Surely the removal of such an odious wretch cannot be Murder ... I will! (Slow music. She gets a cushion, and presses it tightly over Spiker's head.) Oh, I wish he wouldn't gurgle like that, and how he does kick! he cannot even die like a gentleman! (Spiker's kicks become more and more feeble, and eventually cease.) How still he lies! I almost wish ... Mr. Spiker, Mr. Spi-ker!... no answer—oh, I really have suffocated him! (Enter Sir Posh.) You, Papa?

Sir Posh. What, Verbena, sitting with, hem—Samuel in the gloaming? (Sings, with forced hilarity.) "In the gloaming, oh, my darling!" that's as it should be—quite as it should be!

Verb. (in dull strained accents). Don't sing, Papa, I cannot bear it—just yet. I have just suffocated Mr. Spiker with a sofa-cushion. See!

[Shows the body.

Sir Posh. Then I am safe—he will tell no tales now! But, my child, are you aware of the very serious nature of your act? An act of which, as a Justice of the Peace, I am bound to take some official cognizance!

Verb. Do not scold me, Papa. Was it not done for your sake?

Sir P. I cannot accept such an excuse as that. I fear your motives were less disinterested than you would have me believe. And now, Verbena, what will you do? As your father, I would gladly screen you—but, as a Magistrate, I cannot promise to be more than passive.

Verb. Listen, Papa. I have thought of a plan—why should I not wheel this sofa to the head of the front-door steps, and tip it over? They will only think he fell down when intoxicated—for he had taken far too much wine, Papa!

Sir P. Always the same quick-witted little fairy! Go, my child, but be careful that none of the servants see you. (Verb. wheels the sofa and Spiker's body out, L.U.E.) My poor impulsive darling, I do hope she will not be seen—servants do make such mischief! But there's an end of Spiker, at any rate. I should not have liked him for a son-in-law, and with him, goes the only person who knows my unhappy secret!

Enter Blethers.

Blethers. Sir Poshbury, I have a secret to reveal which I can preserve no longer—it concerns something that happened many years ago—it is connected with your birthday, Sir Poshbury.

Sir P. (quailing). What, another! I must stop his tongue at all hazards. Ha, the rotten sash-line! (To Bl.) I will hear you, but first close yonder window, the night air is growing chill.

[Blethers goes to window at back. Slow music. As he approaches it, Lord Bleshugh enters (R 2 E), and, with a smothered cry of horror, drags him back by the coat-tails—just before the window falls with a tremendous crash.

Sir P. Bleshugh! What have you done?

Lord Blesh. (sternly). Saved him from an untimely end—and you from—crime.

[Collapse of Sir P. Enter Verbena, terrified.

Verb. Papa, Papa, hide me! The night-air and the cold stone steps have restored Mr. Spiker to life and consciousness! He is coming to denounce me—you—both of us! He is awfully annoyed!

Sir P. (recklessly). It is useless to appeal to me, child. I have enough to do to look after myself—now!

[Enter Spiker, indignant.

Spiker. Pretty treatment for a gentleman, this! Look here, Poshbury, this young lady has choked me with a cushion, and then pitched me down the front steps—I might have broken my neck!

Sir P. It was an oversight which I lament, but for which I must decline to be answerable. You must settle your differences with her.

Spiker. And you, too, old horse! You had a hand in this, I know, and I'll pay you out for it now. My life ain't safe if I marry a girl like that, so I've made up my mind to split, and be done with it!

Sir P. (contemptuously). If you don't, Blethers will. So do your worst, you hound!

Spiker. Very well, then; I will. (To the rest.) I denounce this man for travelling with a half-ticket from Edgware Road to Baker Street on his thirteenth birthday, the 31st of March, twenty-seven years ago this very day. [Sensation.

Blethers. Hear me; it was not his thirteenth birthday! Sir Poshbury's birthday falls on the 1st of April—to-morrow! I was sent to register the birth, and, by a blunder, which I have repented bitterly ever since, unfortunately gave the wrong date. Till this moment I have never had the manliness or sincerity to confess my error, for fear of losing my situation.

Sir P. (to Spiker). Do you hear, you paltry knave? I was not thirteen. Consequently, I was under age, and the Bye-laws are still unbroken. Your hold over me is gone—gone for ever!

Spiker. H'm—Spiker spiked this time!

[Retires up disconcerted.

Lord Bl. And you did not really love him, after all, Verbena?

Verb. (with arch pride). Have I not proved my indifference?

Lord Bl. But I forget—you admitted that you were but trifling with my affection—take back your pin-cushion.

Verb. Keep it. All that I did was done to spare my father!

Sir Posh. Who, as a matter of fact, was innocent—but I forgive you, child, for your unworthy suspicions. Bleshugh, my boy, you have saved me from unnecessarily depriving myself of the services of an old retainer. Blethers, I condone a dissimulation for which you have done much to atone. Spiker, you vile and miserable rascal, be off, and be thankful that I have sufficient magnanimity to refrain from giving you in charge. (Spiker sneaks off, crushed.) And now, my children, and my faithful old servant, congratulate me that I am no longer——

Verbena and Lord Bleshugh (together). Under the Harrow!

[Affecting Family Tableau and quick Curtain.

BLANK REFUSAL.

B-lf-r. "Quite easy to get the Money, if you'll Back the Bill."
P-rn-ll. "No, thank you!"

The Royal Society of Painters in Water-Colours.—Sir John Gilbert leads off with an excellent landscape "Autumn," which is full of his best quality. The presidential key-note thus struck, seems to have been taken up by the rest of the exhibitors, for in the present show there is certainly a preponderance of landscapes. Among the most notable contributions may be named those by Messrs. Birket Foster, A. D. Fripp, T. Lloyd, C. B. Phillip, Hemy, Smallfield, Marshall, Goodwin, Waterlow, E. K. Johnson, Stacy Marks, Henshall, J. D. Watson, T. J. Watson, Henry Moore, Carl Haag, Miss Clara Montalba, Mrs. Allingham and Miss C. Phillott. The exhibition, though it appears to be not so large as usual, is a very interesting one.

"An Unconsidered Trifle."—One of the clever young men who assist in that excellent Daily Telegraph salad, "London Day by Day," without which, served fresh and fresh every morning, life would not be worth living, said, last Tuesday, that "the latest on 'Change is that Stanley declares he never saw Emin Pasha. Why? Because there's no M in Pasha." Mr. Punch, December 21, 1889, originated it in this form:—

A Mythical Person: Emin Pasha.—Why this fuss about a man who does not exist? There's no M in "Pasha."

"It's of no consequence;" only, given as the latest quotation on 'Change, was not quite up to date for "London Day by Day."

AN UNKNOWN QUANTITY.

What is a "Sphere of Influence"?

Say, warlike Wissmann; tell, pugnacious Pinto

(Whom England had to give so sharp a hint to).

The talk about the thing is now immense.

John Bull, the German, and the Portuguee,

Claim each a "sphere," and that alone makes three;

But what and where are they upon the map?

And do they intersect or overlap?

One wonders what they are and where they can lie.

Stanley flouts Emin, Emin rounds on Stanley;

On Shire's shore raid Portuguese fire-eaters;

Somewhere it seems the problematic Peters

Stirs troubles still in toiling for the Teuton.

Fergusson's diplomatically mute on

The matter, but it scarcely seems chimerical

To say these rivalries are mostly spherical.

Delimitation's talked of, and indeed

'Tis needful, in the face of grabbing greed.

Perhaps a pair of geometric compasses

Might stop these rival rumpusses;

For in these "Spheres of Influence" Punch hears

Anything but the "Music of the Spheres."

INTERESTING NOVELTY.

Lady Maidstone announces "an 8·30 o'clock" (to adapt the Whistlerian title when he did his "ten-and-sixpenny o'clock") at the Westminster Town Hall, for April 26, for the production of an entirely new play, entitled Anne Tigony, by a new and original dramatic authoress of the name of Sophie Klees. It is, we understand, a domestic drama illustrative of Greek life. The great sensation scene is of course "when Greek meets Greek." This tragedy, we are informed, "refers to what, in the Greek way of thinking, are the sacred rites of the dead, and the solemn importance of burial." It is, therefore, an Anti-Cremation Society drama. The tableaux are by Mrs. Jopling, the conductor is Mr. Barney, and the leading rôle of Anne Tigony herself is to be played by my Lady Maidstone. We wish Sophie Klees every possible success, and a big and glorious future. Beware the Cremationists!—they might try to wreck the piece.

A DOUBTFUL COMPLIMENT.

"Oh yes, Sir Gus, my Husband's as well as ever, thank you, and hard at work. I've had to copy out his Pamphlet on Bi-metallism three times, he alters it so! Ah, it's no sinecure to be married to a Man of Genius. I often envy your dear Wife!"

A Rum Subject.—The Budget.

THE TIPPLER'S TRIUMPH.

(See Mr. Goschen's Budget Speech.)

Alas! we deemed him purposeless; the vinous smile that flickered up

Across his glowing countenance was meaningless to us.

We only saw a drunkard who addressed us, as he liquored up,

Not always too politely, and in words that sounded thus.

"All ri' you needn' 'shult me, I'm a berrer man than you;

Mr. Goschen couldn' shpare me as a shource of revenue."

And when we led him home at night we scorned the foolish antic all

That flung him into gutters, made him friendly with a post;

And we snubbed him when he told us—we were always too pedantical—

That he saw a thousand niggers dressed in red on buttered toast.

He was better, now I know it, than our soberheaded crew,

We who added not a farthing to the country's revenue.

And, oh, the folly of his wife, I scarcely can imagine it,

When to his room he reeled at last and went to bed in boots.

And she, with all the bearing of a Tudor or Plantagenet,

Said royally, "We loathe you; you're no better than the brutes."

Shame upon her thus to rate him, for philanthropists are few

Who as much relieve our burdens, or increase the revenue.

But now we know that Surpluses will come to fill the Treasury,

If only, like the sea-port towns, we all keep drinking rum;

And he who swills unceasingly, and always without measure, he

Is truly patriotic, though Blue-ribbonites look glum.

For to him, above all others, easy temperance is due,

Since he cheapens tea by twopence as a source of revenue.

Then here's to those who toasted well the national prosperity,

And swelled the Surplus, draining whiskey, brandy, gin, or beer;

And the man who owns a bottle-nose he owns a badge of merit; he

Takes Bardolph, and not Randolph, as a patron to revere.

Here's your health, my gallant Tippler, may you ne'er have cause to rue

That you blessed our common country as a source of revenue!

THE LAW AND THE LIVER.

[Two Magistrates have decided that selling coffee "containing 80 per cent. of chicory" is not punishable under the Adulteration Act.]

Ever since drinking my morning cup of what my grocer humorously describes as "French Coffee," I have suffered from headache, vertigo, and uncontrollable dyspepsia. I wonder what can be the cause?

Perhaps the fact (inscribed on the bottom of the tin in very small letters) that "this is a mixture of coffee and chicory," has something to do with it.

Only as the chicory is in a majority of four to one, would it not be more correct to describe it as "a mixture of chicory and coffee?"

I see that, in accordance with the Adulteration Act, my baker now sells bread which he labels as "a compound of wheat and other ingredients." Other disagreedients, he ought to say.

"Partly composed of fresh fruit," is the inscription on the jam I purchase. This means one raspberry to a pound of mashed mangold-wurzel.

We shall be taking chemically-coloured chopped hay at five this afternoon. Will you join us?

If I purchase my own coffee-beans and grind them, can my breakfast be properly termed a bean-feast?

Yes, as you say, I can no doubt guard against adulteration by keeping a couple of cows in my cellar, growing corn in my backyard, tea-plants and sugar-canes on my roof, and devoting my best bed-room to the cultivation of coffee, fruit, and mixed pickles; but would my landlord approve of the system?

And, finally, is this what they mean by a "Free Breakfast Table," that every grocer is "free" to poison us under cover of a badly-drawn Act of Parliament?

To the Public.—"Modern Types." Type not yet "used up." Type No. X. will appear next week.

OLD TIMES REVIVED.

"Returning to Old Times.—The new coaches, which are to carry the parcel mail between Manchester and Liverpool nightly, ran for the first time tonight. The coach from Manchester for Liverpool started punctually at ten o'clock from the Parcel Office, in Stevens Square. Some thousands of people had assembled to witness the inauguration of the service. The van, which has been specially constructed for the service, was well-filled with parcels, and a guard in uniform, an old soldier, took his seat inside it, armed with a six-shooter and a side-sword. The departure of the coach, which was announced by the blowing of a horn, was loudly cheered by the crowd of people, and the vehicle was followed down the main streets of the city by some hundreds of spectators. There are three horses to the van, and relays of horses are provided at Hollins Green and Prescot. The coaches are timed to do the thirty-six mile journey in five and a half hours, arriving in Manchester and Liverpool respectively at 3.15 A.M."—Daily Paper, April 14, 1890.

Probable Illustration of the Future:—"ATTACK ON MAIL COACH!"

Sketched by Artist of Daily Graphic on the Spot.

ON THE SWOOP.

Far from its native eyrie, high in air,

Above the extended plain,

The Teuton Eagle hovers. Broad and fair

From Tropic main to main

Stretches a virgin continent vast, and void

Of man's most treasured works;

No plough on those huge slopes is yet employed;

The untamed tiger lurks

In unfelled forest and unfooted brake;

Those streams scarce know a keel;

Through the rank herbage writhes the monstrous snake;

Dim shapes of terror steal

Unmarked and menacing from clump to clump,

Whilst from the tangled scrub

Is heard the trampling elephant's angry trump.

The frolic tiger-cub

Tumbles in jungle-shambles; in his lair

The lion couches prone.

What does that wingéd portent in mid-air,

Hovering alert, alone?

Strong-pinioned, brazen-beaked, and iron-clawed,

This Eagle from the West;

Adventurous, ravening for prey, unawed

By perils of the quest.

Beneath new clouds, above fresh fields he flies,

Foraging fleet and far,

With clutching talons, and with hungering eyes,

Scornful of bound or bar.

Winged things, he deems, may safely oversweep

Landmark and mountain-post.

The Forest-king may fancy he can keep

His realm against a host

Of such aërial harpies. Be it proved!

Till late the Imperial fowl

Not far from its home-pinnacles hath roved;

Now Leo on the prowl

Must watch his wingèd rival. Who may tell

Where it shall strike or stoop?

Leo, your lair must now be warded well;

Aquila's on the Swoop!

THE LAST CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

(Brought by the Survivors against those—who might have looked after them.)

"But we are all getting older every year, and with the lapse of time, while many have died, a good number have fallen into dire misfortune.... Lord Cardigan's words to the survivors of the Six Hundred the morning after the charge have been repeated to me, although I wasn't there to hear them. He said: 'Men, you have done a glorious deed! England will be proud of you, and grateful to you. If you live to get home, be sure you will all be provided for. Not one of you fine fellows will ever have to seek refuge in the workhouse!' Now, you perhaps know how that promise has been kept. I cannot tell you, even from my secretarial records, the full extent of the misery that has fallen upon my old comrades in the Charge of the Light Brigade; but I can give you a few details that should be made widely public."—The Secretary of the Balaclava Committee.

Forty years, Forty years,

All but four—onward,

Since to the Valley of Death

Rode the Six Hundred;

Since the whole country cried

"We will for you provide,—

Blazon your splendid ride,

Gallant Six Hundred!"

Yet now the Light Brigade

Stands staring much dismayed

For they can plainly see

Someone has blundered.

For here are they, grown old,

With their grand story told,

Left to the bitter cold,—

Starving Six Hundred!

Workhouse to right of them,

Workhouse to left of them,

Workhouse in front of them!

Has no one wondered

That British blood should cry,

"Shame!" and exact reply,

Asking the country why

Thus it sees droop and die

Those brave Six Hundred!

As they drop off the stage,

Want, and the weight of age—

Is this their only wage?—

Home rent and sundered!

And is their deed sublime,

Flooding all after-time,

Now but a theme for rhyme,

Whispered—and thundered

Where, from the pit and stalls,

Theatres and Music-halls,

Greet their "Six Hundred!"

Can thus emotion feed

On the heroic deed,

Yet leave the doer in need,—

Of his rights plundered?

"No!" the whole land declares

Henceforth their load it shares,

Spite those who blundered.

They shall note wants decrease,

Of comfort take a lease

Till all their troubles cease

And to their end in peace

Ride the Six Hundred!

MR. PUNCH'S DICTIONARY OF PHRASES.

Social.

"How sweetly that simple costume becomes your style of beauty, dear!"
i.e., "Cheap dress suits a silly dowdy."

"Ah! Here we are again! Thought I should come across you presently;"
i.e., "How he must tout for it! And what a relief it would be to go somewhere where he does not turn up!"

"Yes, capital story I know,—but pardon me just a minute, old chap. I think I see Mrs. Mountcashel beckoning me;"
i.e., "What an escape! Doesn't buttonhole me again to-night if I know it."

Military.

"The Mess rather prides itself upon its cellar;"
i.e., The host is a little doubtful about what the Wine Committee have in hand for the benefit of the guest he has asked to dinner.

"The Regiment at the Inspection, although a trifle rusty, never did better;"
i.e., The Senior Major clubbed the Battalion, and the Commanding Officer was told by the General, with an unnecessary strong expression, to "Take 'em home, Sir!"

Legal.

"The Will of the late Mr. Dash is so complicated that it is not unlikely to give employment to Gentlemen of the long robe;"
i.e., Administration suit, with six sets of solicitors, ten years of chamber practice, three further considerations, and the complete exhaustion of the estate in costs.

"Mr. Nemo, as a Solicitor in his office, is a very able man;"
i.e., That although Mr. Nemo, away from his profession, would shrink from doing anything calculated to get himself turned out of the West-End Club to which he belongs; in his sanctum he would cheerfully sell the bones of his grandmother by auction, and prosecute his own father and mother for petty larceny, arson, or murder, always supposing he saw his way to his costs.

Epistolatory.

"A thousand thanks for your nice long, sympathetic letter;"
i.e., "Great bore to have to reply to six pages of insincere gush."

"Please excuse this hurried scrawl;"
i.e., "That'll cover any mistakes in spelling, &c."

"Only too delighted;"
i.e., "Can't refuse, confound it!"

ON THE SWOOP!

IN THE KNOW.

(By Mr. Punch's Own Prophet.)

There was some good racing at Newmarket last week, and, as usual, every single race proved up to the hilt the extraordinary accuracy of my forecasts. I said a year ago that "Bandersnatch was a colt who hadn't a chance of winning a first-class race. Only a March hare or a Bank-holiday boozer would think of backing him." Bandersnatch's name never even appeared on the race-card last week. Mr. Jeremy says the colt is dead, as if that had anything to do with it; but of course if the gullish herd chooses to cackle after Mr. Jeremy it's no use trying to help them.

The hippopotamus-headed dolts who pinned their faith to Molly Mustard must have learnt their lesson by this time. Of course Molly Mustard defeated that overrated sham Undercut; but what of that? When Undercut was placed second to Pandriver at the North Country Second Autumn Handicap two years ago, I warned everybody that Wobbling Willie who is half-brother to Rattlepate by Spring Onion, ought to have made a certainty of the race if the gruel-brained idiots who own him had only rubbed his back with Daffy's Elixir twice a-day before going to bed. As it was Wobbling Willie rolled about like a ship at sea, and Brighton Pref passed him in a common canter. That scarcely made Molly Mustard a second Eclipse. The fact of the matter is she is a roarer, or will be before the season is over, and those who backed her will have to whistle for their money. All I can say is, that I hope they will like the trap into which their own patent-leather-headed imbecility has led them.

Corncrake is a nice, compact, long-coupled, raking-looking colt, with a fine high action that reminds me of a steam-pump at its best. He is not likely to bring back much of the £3000 given for him as a yearling by his present owner, but he might be used to make the running for his stable-companion Catsmeat, who was picked up for £5 out of a butcher's cart at Doncaster.

For the Two Thousand I should have selected Barkis if he had been entered. Failing him, there is very little in it. Sandy Sal might possibly have a chance, but she has always turned out such an arrant rogue that I hesitate to recommend her. Mr. Jeremy plumps for Old Tom, and the whole pack of brainless moon-calves goes after him in full cry as usual. If Old Tom had two sound legs he might be a decent horse, but he has only got one, and he has never used that properly.

A TRAVELLING TRIBUNAL.

Why not Cyclist Judges and Clerk and Marshal going all the year round, to be met by local Barristers?

THE CHILDREN'S FANCY DRESS BALL.

All the grate Lord Mare's and the good Lady Maress's hundreds and hundreds of little frends had their annual peep into Paradice last Wensday heavening, at the good old Manshun Howse, on which most interesting ocashun all their fond Mas and their stump-upping Pas sent them into the famous Egipshun All in such a warious combenashun of hartistick loveliness and buty as ewen I myself never seed ekalled! Whether it was the rayther sewere coldness of the heavening, or the niceness of the seweral refreshments as the kind Lady Maress perwided, or whether it was that most on 'em was amost one year older than they was larst year, in course I don't know, but they suttenly kept on a pitching into the wittels and drink in a way as rayther estonished ewen my seasoned eyes, acustomed as they is to Copperashun Bankwets, and settra. One little bewty of a Faery, with her lovely silwer wand of power, amost friten'd me out of my wits by thretening to turn me into sumthink dredful if I didn't give her a strawbery hice emedeately, which she fust partly heated, and then drunk, as their custom is, I spose. Then there was a lot of all sorts—niggers and sodgers, and three young ladies as mag-pies. Which last made me think that a young gent fond of using his fists might do wus than go as a burd prize-fiter. By the way, one likes condesenshun, down to a certain xtent, but whether it should hinclude a most bewtifool Princess a dansing with a pore littel white-faced Clown, is what I must leave others to deside; I declines doing it myself.