Punch, or the London Charivari

Volume 98, June 7th 1890

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

VOCES POPULI.

AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY.

In the Vestibule.

Visitors ascending staircase, full of enthusiasm and energetic determination not to miss a single Picture, encounter people descending in various stages of mental and physical exhaustion. At the turnstiles two Friends meet unexpectedly; both being shy men, who, with timely notice, would have preferred to avoid one another, their greetings are marked by an unnatural effusion, and followed by embarrassed silence.

First Shy Man (to break the spell). Odd, our running up against one another like this, eh?

Second Shy Man. Oh, very odd. (Looks about him irresolutely, and wonders if it would be decent to pass on. Decides it will hardly do.) Great place for meeting, the Academy, though.

First S. M. Yes; sure to come across somebody, sooner or later.

[Laughs nervously, and wishes the other would go.

Second S. M. (seeing that his friend lingers). This your first visit here?

First S. M. Yes. Couldn't very well get away before, you know.

[Feels apologetic, without exactly knowing why.

Second S. M. It's my first visit, too. (Sees no escape, and resigns himself.) Er—we may as well go round together, eh?

First S. M. (who was afraid this was coming—heartily). Good! By the way, I always think, on a first visit, it's best to take a single room, and do that thoroughly. [This has only just occurred to him.

Second S. M. (who had been intending to follow that plan himself). Oh, do you? Now, for my part, I don't attempt to see anything thoroughly the first time. Just scamper through, glance at the things one oughtn't to miss, get a general impression, and come away. Then, if I don't happen to come again, I've always done it, you see. But (considerately), look here. Don't let me drag you about, if you'd rather not!

First S. M. Oh, but I shouldn't like to feel I was any tie on you. Don't you mind about me. I shall potter about in here—for hours, I daresay.

Second S. M. Ah, well (with vague consolation), I shall always know where to find you, I suppose.

First S. M. (brightening visibly). Oh dear, yes; I shan't be far away.

[They part with mutual relief, only tempered by the necessity of following the course they have respectively prescribed for themselves. Nemesis overtakes the Second S. M. in the next Gallery, when he is captured by a Desultory Enthusiast, who insists upon dragging him all over the place to see obscure "bits" and "gems," which are only to be appreciated by ricking the neck or stooping painfully.

A Suburban Lady (to Female Friend). Oh dear, how stupid of me! I quite forgot to bring a pencil! Oh, thank you, dear, that will do beautifully. It's just a little blunt; but so long as I can mark with it, you know. You don't think we should avoid the crush if we began at the end room? Well, perhaps it is less confusing to begin at the beginning, and work steadily through.

In Gallery No. I.

A small group has collected before Mr. Wyllie's "Davy Jones's Locker," which they inspect solemnly for some time before venturing to commit themselves to any opinion.

First Visitor (after devoting his whole mind to the subject). Why, it's the Bottom of the Sea—at least (more cautiously), that's what it seems to be intended for.

Second V. Ah, and very well done, too. I wonder, now, how he managed to stay down long enough to paint all that?

Third V. Practice, I suppose. I've seen writing done under water myself. But that was a tank!

Fourth V. (presumably in profound allusion to the fishes and sea-anemones). Well, they seem to be 'aving it all their own way down there, don't they?

[The Group, feeling that this remark sums up the situation, disperses.

The Suburban Lady (her pencil in full play). No. 93. Now what's that about? Oh, "Forbidden Sweets,"—yes, to be sure. Isn't that charming? Those two dear little tots having their tea, and the kitten with its head stuck in the jam-pot, and the label and all, and the sticky spoon on the nursery table-cloth—so natural! I really must mark that. (Awards this distinction.) 97. "Going up Top." Yes, of course. Look, Lucy dear, that little fellow has just answered a question, and his master tells him he may go to the top of the class, do you see? And the big boy looking so sulky, he's wishing he had learnt his lesson better. I do think it's so clever—all the different expressions. Yes, I shall certainly mark that!

In Gallery No. II.

The S. L. (doubtfully). H'm, No. 156. "Cloud Chariots"? Not very like chariots, though, are they?

Her Friend. I expect it's one of those sort of pictures that you have to look at a long time, and then things gradually come out of it, you know.

The S. L. It may be. (Tries the experiment.) No, I can't make anything come out—only just clouds and their reflections. (Struggling between good-nature and conscientiousness.) I don't think I can mark that.

In Gallery No. III.

A Matron (before Mr. Dicksee's "Tannhäuser"). "Venus and Tannhäuser"—ah, and is that Venus on the stretcher? Oh, that's her all on fire in the background. Then which is Tannhäuser, and what are they all supposed to be doing? [In a tone of irritation.

Her Nephew. Oh, it tells you all about it in the Catalogue—he meets her funeral, you know, and leaves grow on his stick.

The Matron (pursing her lips). Oh, a dead person.

[Repulses the Catalogue severely and passes on.

First Person, with an "Eye for Art" (before "Pysche's Bath," by the President). Not bad, eh?

Second Person, &c. No, I rather like it. (Feels that he is growing too lenient.) He doesn't give you a very good idea of marble, though.

First P. &c. No—that's not marble, and he always puts too many folds in his drapery to suit me.

First P. &c. Just what I always say. It's not natural, you know.

[They pass on, much pleased with themselves and one another.

A Fiancé (halting before a sea-scape, by Mr. Henry Moore, to Fiancée). Here, I say, hold on a bit—what's this one?

Fiancée (who doesn't mean to waste the whole afternoon over pictures). Why, it's only a lot of waves—come on!

The Surburban L. Lucy, this is rather nice. "Breakfasts for the Porth!" (Pondering.) I think there must be a mistake in the Catalogue—I don't see any breakfast things—they're cleaning fish, and what's a "Porth!" Would you mark that—or not?

Her Comp. Oh, I think so.

The S. L. I don't know. I've marked such a quantity already and the lead won't hold out much longer. Oh, it's by Hook, R. A. Then I suppose it's sure to be all right. I've marked it, dear.

Duet by Two Dreadfully Severe Young Ladies, who paint a little on China. Oh, my dear, look at that. Did you ever see such a thing? Isn't it too perfectly awful? And there's a thing! Do come and look at this horror over here. A "Study," indeed. I should just think it was! Oh, Maggie, don't be so satirical, or I shall die! No, but do just see this—isn't it killing? They get worse and worse every year, I declare!

[And so on.

In Gallery No. V.

(Two Prosaic Persons come upon a little picture, by Mr. Swan, of a boy lying on a rock, piping to fishes.)

First P. P. That's a rum thing!

Second P. P. Yes, I wasn't aware myself that fishes were so partial to music.

First P. P. They may be—out there—(perceiving that the boy is unclad)—but it's peculiar altogether—they look like herrings to me.

Second P. P. Yes—or mackerel. But (tolerantly) I suppose it's a fancy subject.

[They consider that this absolves them from taking any further interest in it, and pass on.

In Gallery No. XI.

An Old Lady (who judges Art from a purely Moral Standpoint, halts approvingly before a picture of a female orphan). Now, that really is a nice picture, my dear—a plain black dress and white cuffs—justwhat I like to see in a young person!

The S. L. (her enthusiasm greatly on the wane, and her temper slightly affected). Lucy, I wish you wouldn't worry so—it's quite impossible to stop and look at everything. If you wanted your tea as badly as I do! Mark that one? What, when they neither of them have a single thing on! Never, Lucy,—and I'm surprised at your suggesting it! Oh, you meant the next one? h'm—no, I can't say I care for it. Well, if I do mark it, I shall only put a tick—for it really is not worth a cross!

Coming Out.

The Man who always makes the Right Remark. H'm. Haven't seen anything I could carry away with me.

His Flippant Friend. Too many people about, eh? Never mind, old chap, you may manage to sneak an umbrella down-stairs—I won't say anything!

[Disgust of his companion, who descends stairs in offended silence, as scene closes.

"EMBARRASSING!"

IN THE KNOW.

(By Mr. Punch's Own Prophet.)

I am told that many of the millions who have read with delight the brilliant sporting articles that have appeared from my pen week after week expect me to utter a few words of seasonable advice as to the chances of the various animals engaged in the Derby and the Oaks. If I were one of the chowder-headed numskulls who cackle for hire, the task would doubtless be an easy one. Mr. J. has performed it yearly with that magnificent want of success which attends all his addle-pated efforts. But, praise be to Heaven! I am not Mr. J., or one of his crew. I am only a humble writer, distinguished alike for his unerring sagacity, his undeviating accuracy, and his incisive force of expression. My task is, therefore, stupendous, but I will perform it.

The Derby.

There are many horses in for the Derby. Some people fancy Surefoot. Fancies are not, of course, facts, but the name is good. Keep your eye on the black and cerise of Liddiard. Sainfoin is not generally supposed to cover grass, but there are generally exceptions. I have not heard the angels calling Le Nord lately, but they may begin at any time. A man may get home, so may a horse, and I am bound to say that if I were The Beggar I should give the lie to the crack-brained puddling proverb, and be a chooser of first place. Bel Demonio should be all there when the first part of his name rings, so that he may go like the second, if he wants to be one, two, or three. Rathbeal rhymes to heel. Has he got a clean pair to show? Orwell should score well; and you must never, tie your Garter too tightly, unless you want to stop your circulation. Golden Gate is not always as open as might be wished; and The Imp is sometimes a hindrance. Good old Polonius! As for Kirkham, Alloway, Martagon, and Loup, all I can say is, Mum's the word. How about the Field? Monkeys are often made there. So much for the Derby.

The Oaks.

Who said Semolina? Passion, passion take advice, fill your pockets fall of Semolina. Ha, ha! Signorina ought certainly not to miss the mark by more than a mile. Mémoire might do pour servir, and Goldwing sounds well for a flyer. Those who cross the Ponza (sinorum) generally go further with ease, and Dearest is certainly superlative. The Field a monkey. Who said that? Whoever he was, let him beware! That is all I have to say in the meantime, but anyone desiring further information is requested to apply to me by letter at the office, enclosing twelve clean stamps for a reply. All who are not in a state of niddy-noddying, anserous, asinine, gruel-brained, pumpkin-faced, gooseberry-eyed imbecility, will, of course, do so.

A Shaftesbury Song.

(Air—"With a Doodah!" as sung years ago, with great applause, by Mr. W. E. Gl-dst-ne.)

Our Author Jones has come out strong

With a Judah! With a Judah!

Original drama, three Acts long,

Judah! Judah! pay!

It's bound to run each night,

And many a Matinée.

I'll lay my money on the Willard nag.

Ev'ryone will see the play.

PROFESSOR TYNDALL'S LATEST PORTRAIT OF MR. C.,

Executed with Scientific Accuracy and Considerable Restraint of Tone. (Guildford, May 28.)

"EMBARRASSING!"

Or, The Political Scipio and the East African Charmer.

"Though the topic of Africa is said to be 'embarrassing and inconvenient,' it need not occasion any uneasiness at all; but if the British Government surrenders any portion of the territory reserved for the sphere of British influence, it may become most terribly embarrassing within a measurable period of time."—Stanley's Reply to Lord Salisbury.

Stanley, loquitur:—

History repeats itself! Perhaps it may do,

But "with a difference." The moral Sages

Think that if anyone holds wisdom, they do;

But not all sense is stored in pedant's pages.

Historic parallels, from Plutarch downwards,

Are rather pretty fancies than realities.

I am no book-worm, have no leanings gownwards.

And set small store by moralist's banalities.

To pose as Scipio, that pudent Roman,

So praised by pedagogue Polybius, seemingly

Pleases a Tory Premier. Well, our foeman

Won't slumber whilst we choose to doze on dreamingly.

Scipio at New Carthage was a hero

Of virgin virtue and high generosity;

But hopes in Africa will fall to zero,

If "policy" means virtuous pomposity.

The chaste Proconsul turned his visage blushingly,

From what with him was personal temptation;

But what's good rule for one will fall quite crushingly

If 'tis adopted by a mighty nation.

Scipio, no doubt, was splendid in his modest

And generous dealings with those Spanish hostages;

But Salisbury-Scipio? Picture of the oddest!

Imperial rule is not all Penny Postages,

Dainty diplomacies, generous concessions

To Teuton tastes and Hohenzollern fancies;

Or faith in bland Caprivi's fine professions,

And wandering Weissmann's roseate romances.

Kilimi-Njaro, Masai-Land, the Congo,

Should satisfy your thirst for abnegation;

And now, methinks, dear Lord, you cannot wrong go,

If you go in for—let's say "exploitation."

Scipio the Elder was not given to letting

The Carthaginians get too much the best of him.

Now on the Teuton it is even betting;

To squeeze you north, or south, or east, or west of him.

Out of the Congo State on the west border,

Out of the Southern Soudan on his north one!

By Jove, my Lord, that seems a biggish order!

To stop it needs some struggle, and 'tis worth one.

That poor East African Company's affronted,

While Iron-clads and soldiers help the Teuton.

Must they then be from the Nyanza shunted,

And must I all their miseries be mute on,

Because plain speech is what you call "embarrassing."

Because unto the Teuton you're so tender?

Must Englishmen in Africa stand harassing,

And stoop to a calm policy of Surrender,

And all that a proud Premier at Hatfield

May play the Scipio—in this feeble fashion?

My Lord, we did not win our spurs in that field.

Upon my soul, it puts me in a passion;

And not me only, but, as you'll discover,

A lot of Englishmen who watch this drama.

Scipio was not an indiscriminate lover,

But it was he licked Hannibal at Zama.

I bring you, Scipio, the East Afric beauty

Captured and chained, but opulent and charming.

You turn away! From sacred sense of duty?

From fear of your (political) virtue harming?

No! Scipio seemed ruled by honour's laws

When to the captured beauty he was lenient,

You turn away, sham Scipio, because

She seems "embarrassing and inconvenient!"

BEER.

[Messrs. Spiers and Pond say in a letter in The Daily Telegraph, that "bottled beer is really what the great majority of the public want when they are out for a holiday.">[

Mention not the wines of Medoc, nor the vintage of Bordeaux,

Or the Burgundy that rivals e'en the ruby in its flow;

Though the growers of Epernay and the merry men of Rheims,

Pour champagne that holds the sunlight in exhilarating streams;

There's a finer nobler tipple, that the Briton's heart doth cheer,

And he clings with fond affection to his draught or bottled beer.

Amber Rudesheimer charms us wandering by the haunted Rhine,

Sparkling Hock near Ehrenbreitstein is a mighty pleasant wine;

In agreement with the German we have vowed we loved full well,

To behold the bubbles flashing on a goblet of Moselle;

But the Briton hugs his tankard, and would count the man an ass

Who held not in highest honour nectar from the vats of Bass.

Port is worthy of acceptance, once men made the bottle spin;

Sherry hath a welcome flavour when the filberts have come in:

Scotsmen have been seen imbibing in the mountains of the north,

What is known as whiskey-toddy in the lands beside the Forth:

But the Englishmen will tell you that for really sterling worth—

Bass's beer can beat all liquids that were ever made on earth.

THE BITTER CRY OF THE LONDON RIDER HAGGARD AND JADED.

the Chief Commissioners of Works, The Ditto of Police, and to "George" Ranger.

Why not open up rides in Kensington Gardens? Say one good one under the trees from South-West to North-West, and connect Kensington with Bayswater? Will any benefactor to unfortunate Metropolitan Equestrians force this North-West passage?

There is a meagre ride at the side of the road in the Inner Circle, Regent's Park. Why not a good ride right across Park? From considerable observation and experience of Kensington Gardens and Regent's Park, it may be confidently asserted, that such rides as are here proposed, would not interfere with the comfort of a single (or married) nurse or governess with children in her charge. Both places are comparatively unfrequented, and the proposed rides would not infringe upon the recreation of the London boys.

We strongly recommend the Chief Commissioner to visit Paris, and, mounted upon a comfortable horse, let him make the acquaintance of the delightful sentiers laid out as rides in the Bois de Boulogne. This will be a first-rate French exercise for him, and he will learn a great deal from it. The Duke, who is fond of equitation, especially in Battersea Park, must admit that the equestrians of London are very badly off for variety. Up and down Rotten Row, once into the siding by the Barracks, once to the dismal ride on the North side, and once back again by the ride that opens on to the Mausoleum-like Magazine,—which of all London Magazines is the dreariest,—this, and only this, is the daily burden of the patient London rider's song. "How long? How long?" as Mr. Wilson Barrett used to be always exclaiming in The Silver King, or Claudian, or both. How long—will mounted London put up with this, which is the reverse of a merry-go-round?

Then we have to be thankful for the small mercy of a narrow strip of a ride, barely room for one, along Constitution Hill, and for that other strip, a trifle wider, in Birdcage Walk, which is always crowded with children, and one might as well be riding through nursery grounds. Why shouldn't there be here a cut right across the grass, from The Walk of the Birdcages to middle of Piccadilly?

If George Ranger, the Chief Commissioner of Police, and the Chief of the Board of Works would combine, we might get something done which would benefit the riders—riders haggard and jaded—and materially assist the smallest circulation (possessed by those who ride to live) in the world. There is one thing that ought to be put down, and put down with a strong hand,—and that is plenty of gravel at all the gates; but especially round and about the Marble Arch, which is a most dangerously slippery pass.

THE "SILK" EXHIBITION.

What Our Artist Expected to Find There.

RAILWAY UNPUNCTUALITY REPORT;

Or, What it may probably come to.

That the new Legislation has begun to tell favourably on the conduct of the traffic of the leading lines cannot for a moment be doubted after glancing at the thirteenth Bi-weekly Record, published at the Companies' expense, according to the Provisions of the recent Act, on the back of all their passenger-tickets. It is satisfactory to note how, in something like six weeks, punctuality in the train service seems really almost established, the only train arriving one minute late being one of the Edinburgh Expresses, of which the boiler of the engine blew up at Grantham, thereby causing a little delay, which, however, was picked up before the conclusion of the run by extra steaming. The heavy penal system which the new Legislation has introduced, is, of course, answerable for this delightful change; but a glance at the following table for the six weeks since the Act has come into operation, will show how effectively and rapidly it has worked:—

* Precautionary sentence.

The list of officials, as furnished in the above Schedule, undergoing their various periods of punishment, is an encouraging sign to the travelling public, and it is satisfactory to notice that the old unpunctuality that marked the first week, followed up as it was by a rigorous application of the new law, instantly disappeared as if by magic, when the Companies began really to understand their responsibilities and their penalties under the new Act. It is confidently, therefore, to be hoped, that next week's record may possibly be an entirely clean one, and that, the only method of ensuring punctuality, namely, the infliction of a penalty on the Authorities who can control it, may be found in practice to be entirely successful.

Suggestion Gratis.—Why doesn't some enterprising publisher engage Sergeant Palmer of the 19th Knowles's Century Powder Magazine to write a Military Romance? There has been nothing of the sort worth mentioning since Charles Lever. The Sergeant could write under the nom de guerre of Micky Free, Redivivus.

(Signed) Baron de Book-worms.

Q. If several Householders who love peace and quietness on Sunday, should combine to put down the Salvation Army's so-called singing, what Mountains would they resemble?—A. The Hymn Allayers.

THE OPERA-GOER'S DIARY.

Marguérite Nordica Slybootzen coming home from church.

Monday, May 26.—Faust. Faust-rate performance as far as Jack and Ned de Reszké are concerned. Madame Nordica is far too knowing a Marguérite. The simple Faust, just beginning life, is evidently no match for this guileless young lady. Being "no match for her" is probably the reason for his not marrying her. Nordica charming vocally, but dramatically there is too much of the Becky Sharp about her, and she is merely in a plot with Martha to let in the rich and spoony Juggins called Faust. New man, Franceschetti, as Valentine, not quite the thing: perhaps nervous seeing Dan Drady in front looking at him. Good house for Whit Monday, though of course The Brilliancies are absent. Choruses excellent. What capital match-boxes the old men in the Old Men's Chorus would make! Good contrast between Mlle. Bauermeister as Martha, and Ned de R. as Mephistopheles.

Tuesday.—Glorious Opera, Les Huguenots; French title with Italian names, such as Valentina, Margherita di Valois, Urbano, &c. First appearance of Monsieur Ybos. Why Boss? Always thought Druriolanus was Boss of this Show. Better change name to Y-not-bos, and the answer will come from Druriolanus himself, "Iboss." Monsieur Ybos belongs to the school of Signor Vibrato. Energetic but too angry with Valentina, when she confesses that she loves him. Ella Russell magnificent as sleeveless Queen. Ned de Reszké the best possible Marcello. As Druriolanus, dropping into poetry, observes—

He is the very best Marcello,

With a voice like the deepest violoncello.

Monsieur Dufriche as San Bris, "quite the brie," or cheese. Madame Tetrazzini a dramatic Valentina. Dan Drady a first-rate Conte di Nevers-too-late-to-mend. Curfew-Watchman in perfect tune. Soldiers' rataplanatory chorus very nearly perfection at finish, though starting shakily. Little Palladino danced so delightfully as even to bewitch the Hug-me-not soldiers. I've seen this Opera any number of times, and I have been at considerable trouble and expense to master the plot. An idea strikes me. I shall publish Examination Papers on Popular Operas. What the prize will be for the one who answers correctly from memory, without reference to any libretto, is a matter for further consideration. Here is a specimen of examination paper on the Huguenots:—

Act I.—Why is Raoul blindfolded?

What is Miss Valentine doing in somebody else's house?

Why does Raoul's servant come in and sing a hymn?

Why is he apparently pleased when Raoul is blindfolded and taken away?

Raoul di Nangis Ybos. "'Tu m'ami!' How dare you! 'Tu m'ami!' I can't tell you how angry I am with you. I'll vibrato you!"

[Shakes himself, and her at the same time.]

Act. II.—Account for the dresses of the bathing-women who come in and dance before the Queen. Where are the machines?

What is the Page's song, "No, no, no, no!" about?

Is Raoul in love with the Queen, or the Queen with Raoul? In either case account reasonably for the subsequent conduct of each of them.

What is the Queen singing about at commencement of Act?

Act III.—What is Valentine doing out in the streets, in a wedding-dress, late at night?

Why do the women turn their backs on the church when they kneel in the streets to say their prayers? Is there no more kneeling-room inside the church? If so, why are people still being admitted while the women are kneeling outside? What service should you say was going on?

Where do the Maritanas with tambourines all come from? And why? Are they the bathing-women in another costume? If so, show their connection with the plot.

After the curfew has sounded, and a man with a lantern has sent everyone to bed, why do all the people suddenly come out of bed again, every one of them all dressed and ready for anything?

What is the Queen doing riding about the town at night on a white horse?

Act IV.—Don't you think the Conspirators are very simple-minded people, not to look behind the curtain where Raoul is hidden? What have the nuns to do with the blessing of the daggers? Wouldn't they be rather in the way in a conspiracy?

On what storey does the action of Act IV. take place, and what is the height from the ground that Raoul has to leap when he jumps out of the window?

There used to be a Fifth Act, with a grand trio and chorale, what has become of it? If played, does anyone stop to hear it? If not played, can audience sue the management, or demand their money back?

Unexpected effect. Sudden appearance of representative of Katti Lanner.

Thursday.—Memorable for two rentrées and one first appearance. Rentrée of Madame Etelka Gerster, rentrée of Ravelli, and first appearance, on stage, this season, of Covent Garden Cat. Trying position for the sleep-walking heroine in bed-room scene, when the Covent Garden Cat (who was in front last Tuesday night, when she ran round the ledge of the pit tier in humble imitation of little Laurie at Pantomime time) suddenly rushes from under the bed, and after nearly frightening into fits naughty little Lisa Bauermeister, who happens to be hiding there, walks with tail erect quietly across the stage, and makes a good exit R. 2. E. Count Edouard, in commencement-of-nineteenth-century hat and coat, finished off with trousers and patent-leather boots of date A.D. 1890, much amused. Amina supposed to be walking in her sleep, can't possibly take notice of animal, but House in chuckles, as an audience always is, whenever the harmless and quite unnecessary cat appears upon the stage. Rentrée of Ravelli, in first-rate voice. Everyone charmed with him, and with Ned de Reszké. Signor Rinaldino an amusing Alessio, and Madame Sinico tunefully affectionate as the devoted and sympathetic Mamma of the Aminable heroine. Melodies of our childhood, delightful to hear them again; and the good old-fashioned Italian Opera terminations to the choruses admirably rendered.

Friday.—"Dr. Faust, I presume?" I wasn't there. Opera went on, I believe, in my absence.

Saturday.—La Traviata. Ella Russell at her best. Tenor Montariol not quite at his best as that despicable character Alfredo. M. Palermini (why not "Old Pal"?) very good as Giorgio Germont. The magnificently-attired chorus enjoy themselves amazingly at supper in Act I., for Violetta, when she does do the thing, does it well, and there are certainly not less than four bottles of champagne among a hundred guests.

Questions for Examination Paper.—At whose house does this supper-party take place? Why do all the guests leave at once? Why is everyone in a Charles the Second costume except Violetta, who is in fashionable evening dress of 1890? Who is the young lady whom Violetta so affectionately kisses? and what, if anything, has she to do with the plot?

In Act III.—Is it a bal masqué? If not, what is it, and where? What is the simple game of cards which Alfredo plays with such enthusiasm? Who wins? and how much?

CAUTION.

Married Sister. "And of course, Laura, you will go to Rome or Florence for your Honeymoon?"

Laura. "Oh dear, no! I couldn't think of going further than the Isle of Wight with a Man I know little or nothing of!"

"DOUBTFUL!"

Owner.

Our Stable's a bit out of form

(Says more than one usual backer),

The pace will be made pretty warm,

And the finish will be a rare cracker.

By Jove! we must put our best goods in the front,

Or possibly we may be out of the hunt.

Trainer.

Come, Sir, don't go talking like that!

Cantankerous critics will chatter.

Our 'osses can go a rare "bat,"

Theirs funk it, Sir! That's what's the matter!

Eh, Ritchie, my boy? Oh, the crack that you ride

Will go, when he once settles into his stride.

Jockey.

My opinion's of little account,

But I don't mind admitting, yer honour,

I am not dead nuts on my mount.

Some say he's as good as a goner.

Though the Witlers are on him, of course, to a man,

His own brother warn't placed the one time as he ran.

Owner.

The Brother Bung stock, entre nous,

All show soft, when it comes to close racing.

This horse looks a bit of a "screw,"—

There, Goschen, no need for grimacing.

I mean no offence; he's well trained, and might win;

But—well, backers seem cautious in planking their tin.

Trainer.

Humph! Pencillers have been at work;

They'll muck the nag's chance, if they're able.

Fatty Caine—the fanatical shirk!—

Seems inclined to abandon the Stable.

But still Compensation's a horse to my mind.

He will finish with fewer before than behind.

Owner.

Ah! but that's not quite good enough, G.

Just now what we want's a clear winner.

Our new string of cracks numbers three;

There's Tithe (who's a timid beginner),

Land Purchase, a nailer, and this, your pet nag.

The question is, which is the best of the bag?

Land Purchase, now, comes of sound stock