PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 104.
FEBRUARY 4, 1893.
WHEN A MAN DOES NOT LOOK HIS BEST.
Burglar (taking the ground heavily). "Naow, 'ooever'd 'a' thought o' the Howner o' that there hinnercent little Villa bein' a Perfessional 'Chucker-hout'?!!!"
LAMENT OF THE (WOULD-BE) IRISH EMIGRANT.
(Latest Version, with apologies to Lady Dufferin.)
[Senator Chandler, in The North-American Review, recommends that immigration into the United States should be suspended, at least for a year.]
Oi'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, an' lookin' o'er the tide,
An' by jabers Oi'm afraid, Aroon, that there Oi'll have to bide!
The grass is springin' fresh an' green in Ould Oireland, but oh moy!
If there's any green in Jonathan's land, it is not in his oi!
The States are awful changed, Mary; it is not now as then,
When they lifted a free latch-string to all exiled Oirishmen.
Now we miss the whoop ov welcome; they suggest it's loike our cheek,
And Oi'm listenin' for brave Lowell's words—which Chandler does not speak!
It seems to me their Aigle for full Freedom no more pants,
And the Senator, he mutthers ov "degraded immigrants."
Says they can't "assimilate" us; faix, the wurrud sounds monstrous foine,
But Oi fancy that it's maning is, "We mane to draw the loine!"
Shure, we're "ignorant and debased," dear; and the poor won't now find friends
Even in free Columbia! So 'tis thus the ould boast ends!
"Stop 'em—for a year," says Chandler; "we'll be holding our Big Show,
An' poverty, an'—well, Cholera, are not wanted thin, you know."
It's an artful move, my Mary, but, it stroikes me, a bit thin,
And it won't come home consolin', to "the poor ov Adam's kin."
Faix! they won't stop 'cabin passengers,' big-wigs, an' British Peerage,
But—they don't want the poor devils that crowd over in the steerage!
So Oi'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, and there Oi'll loikely sthop,
For they don't require poor Paddy in their big new Chandler's Shop.
Uncle Sam's some punkins, Mary, but he's not a great green goose;
An' he's goin' to sthop a braggin' ov that latch-string always loose!
MIXED NOTIONS—NO. IV. EGYPT.
Two Well-Informed Men, an Inquirer, and an Average Man, in suburban morning train to London.
First Well-Informed Man (reading his paper). Oh, I say, dash it, this'll never do. Here's this young Khedive of Egypt kicking up a shine, and dismissing British Ministers. We can't have that, you know.
Inquirer. What Ministers has he dismissed?
First W. I. M. Why, British Ministers,—at least (reading on) I mean Egyptian Ministers; that's to say, chaps whom we appointed.
Second W. I. M. Come, come, we couldn't appoint Egyptian Ministers, could we?
First W. I. M. Oh, it comes to exactly the same thing; they're appointed subject to our proviso (consulting paper), yes, subject to our veto, and then this little whipper-snapper goes and gives them the chuck. He'll jolly soon have to climb down off that.
Average Man. Gently! The young chap's King, after all, isn't he? I thought Kings might appoint or dismiss Ministers as they liked.
First W. I. M. Oh, rot! The Queen can't appoint her own Ministers. We all know that. They're appointed by the Prime Minister. Any fool knows that.
Inquirer. But who appoints the Prime Minister?
First W. I. M. He appoints himself, and tells the Queen he's done it. They all go and kiss hands and get their seals, or something of that sort.
Inquirer. Of course, of course. I forgot that. But how about these Egyptian beggars?
First W. I. M. The Khedive's had the cheek to dismiss the Ministry, and shove another lot in. I see Lord Cromer has been to the Palace to protest.
Inquirer. Lord Cromer! Who's he?
First W. I. M. My dear fellow, fancy not knowing that! Lord Cromer's our Ambassador at Cairo.
Second W. I. M. Oh, nonsense. There are no ambassadors at Cairo.
First W. I. M. Aren't there? Oh, indeed. Well, then perhaps you'll tell me what Lord Cromer is?
Second W. I. M. He's our Minister. That's what they call them.
Inquirer. Was it him the Khedive dismissed, then?
Second W. I. M. (laughing heartily). No, no; we haven't got to that yet. He dismissed his own Johnnies, of course; Egyptians. Lord Cromer's the English Minister.
Average Man. No, he isn't. He's the English Agent.
Second W. I. M. Oh, well, it's the same thing.
First W. I. M. (taking his revenge). No, it isn't at all the same thing; it's a very different thing. A Minister's only just short of an Ambassador, and an Agent (pauses)—well, he's something quite different. I don't think he gets as much pay for one thing, and of course he can't live in the Embassy.
Inquirer. But who does live in the Embassy, then?
First W. I. M. It's unoccupied, of course.
Average Man. No, it isn't. There isn't any Embassy at all. [A pause.
Inquirer (returning to the charge). But look here, who is Lord Cromer? I never heard of him before. I thought we'd got Baring or Rothschild, or somebody representing us in Egypt.
First W. I. M. (with smiling superiority). My dear chap, you're thinking of Sir Evelyn Baring. He left Egypt long ago.
Inquirer. Why did he leave?
First W. I. M. Old Gladstone gave him the sack.
Second W. I. M. No, he didn't. Gladstone wasn't in power when Baring left Egypt. It was Salisbury who dismissed him.
First W. I. M. I bet you a sov. it was Gladstone.
Second W. I. M. And I bet you a sov. it was Salisbury.
Average Man. You'll both lose. It was neither.
First W. I. M., Second W. I. M. (together). Bosh! That's impossible.
Average Man. It's a fact.
First W. I. M. (triumphant). Well, how do you account for his not being there now?
Average Man. He is there.
First W. I. M. He isn't. Lord Cromer's there. Here it is. (Producing Times.) "Lord Cromer has protested in person." So come!
Average Man. All right. I know all that. Only, unfortunately, they're one and the same person.
First W. I. M., Second W. I. M. (together). Oh, I daresay; and you think we're going to swallow that. You tell that to your Grandmother! [Both remain absolutely unconvinced.
Inquirer. But what's this about the French? What have they got to do with it?
Second W. I. M. Oh, they've got their fingers in every pie; always making mischief.
First W. I. M. Quite true; but they'll find we're going to sit tight in spite of them, so the sooner they cart themselves and their blessed old Pyramids out of the country the better.
Inquirer. Why should they take the Pyramids?
First W. I. M. Well, they built 'em, so I suppose they've got a right to do what they like with them.
Inquirer. Of course. [Terminus.
"H.M.S. 'TOKO.'"
Nurse Britannia. "Allow me to inform your Highness here comes a Box of Soldiers you mustn't play with."
The Red Spider, by Baring Gould, is to be dramatised. What a chance this would have been for the "Brothers Webb," were they still in stage-land.
Sole Survivors.—The uppers of a Tramp's highlows.
Sharp Fighting at Rangoon.—We hope soon to hear that the Kachins are Kachin' it hot.
Advice to those "up a Gum Tree" (by "Non Possum").—Come down as quickly as you can, and don't stick there.
A LESSON IN FRENCH.
Fräulein Schnips (who does not devote as much attention to the Toilet as she does to Study, addresses Master Edward who has been made to join in his Sister's lessons during his holidays). "Edfard, fot is 'I vash my Hands' in French?"
Master Edward (sulkily). "Je me lave les mains."
F. S. "Now den. 'I do not vash my Hands.' Gu'est-ce gue c'est gue ça?"
Master Edward (seizing his opportunity). "Eh bien, c'est une habitude sale, dont vous devriez avoir honte!"
"SOME DAY!"
(Latest Egyptian Version of Milton Welling's popular Song.)
Mr. Bull to Miss Egypt, sings:—
I know not when the day shall be,
I know not when we two shall part;
What farewell you will give to me,
Or will your words be sweet or tart?
It may not be till years have passed,
Till France grows calm, young Abbas grey;
But I am pledged—so, love, at last,
Our hands, our hearts must part—some day!
Some day, some day,
Some day I shall leave you!
Love, I know not when or how,
(So I can but vaguely vow)
Only this, only this,
(Which I trust won't grieve you),
Only this—I can't go now, I can't go now, I can't go Now!
I know not if 'tis far or near,
Some six months' hence, while we both live;
I know not who the blame shall bear,
Or who protest, or who forgive;
But when we part, some day, some day,
France, fairer grown, the truth may see,
And all those clouds be rolled away
That darken love 'twixt her and me.
Some day, some day,
Some day I must leave you!
Lawks! I know not when or how,
(Though the Powers kick up a row),
Only this, only this,
(Which I won't deceive you),
Only this—I can't go now, I shan't go now, I won't go Now!
IS SCIENCE PLAYED OUT?
["In a grain of butter you have 47,250,000 microbes. When you eat a slice of bread-and-butter, you therefore must swallow as many microbes as there are people in Europe."—"Science Notes" in Daily Chronicle.]
Charlotte, eating bread-and-butter,
Read this Note with horror utter,
And (assisted by the cutter)
Went on eating bread-and-butter!
Man will say—with due apology
To alarmed Bacteriology—
Spite of menacing bacilli,
Man must eat, friend, willy-nilly!
And where shall he find due foison
If e'en bread-and-butter's poison?
Science told our amorous Misses
Death may be conveyed in kisses;
But it did not keep the nation
From promiscuous osculation.
Now it warneth the "Young Person"
(Whom Grant Allen voids his curse on)
"Bread-and-butter Misses" even
In their food may find death's leaven!
Never mind how this is made out!
Science—as a Bogey's—played out.
Spite all warnings it may utter,
Women will have Bread-and-Butter!
OUT OF WORK.
(After reading "Outcast London" by the Daily Chronicle's Special Commissioner at the East End.)
Divines inform us that the Primal Curse
On poor humanity was Compulsory Work;
But Civilisation has devised a worse,
Which even Christian effort seems to shirk.
The Worker's woes love may assuage. Ah, yes!
But what shall help Compulsory Worklessness?
Not Faith—Hope—Charity even! All the Graces
Are helpless, without Wisdom in high places.
Though liberal alms relieve the kindly soul,
You can't cure destitution by a dole.
No, these are days when men must dare to try
What a Duke calls—Argyll the high-and-dry—
"The Unseen Foundations of Society";
And not, like wealthy big-wigs, be content
With smart attacks on "Theories of Rent."
Most theories of rent we know, the fact is
What we have doubts about, Duke, is—the practice!
When Rent in Power's hands becomes a rack
To torture Toil, bold wisdom will hark back
To the beginnings and the bases; ask
What hides beneath that Economic mask
Which smiles unmoved by Sorrow's strain and stress
On half-starved Work and whole-starved Worklessness!
THE MAN FROM BLANKLEY'S.
A Story in Scenes.
Scene IV.—Mrs. Tidmarsh's Drawing-room; Mr. Tidmarsh has just shaken hands with the latest arrival, and is still in the utmost perplexity as to the best manner to adopt towards him. The other Guests are conversing, with increased animation, at the further end of the room.
Lord Strathsporran (to Mr. Tidmarsh). Afraid I'm most abominably late—had some difficulty in getting here—such a fog, don't you know! It's really uncommonly good of you to let me come and see your antiquities like this. If I am not mistaken, you have got together a collection of sepulchral objects worth coming any distance to study. [He glances round the room, in evident astonishment.
Mr. Tid. (to himself). Nice names to give my dinner-party! Impudent young dog, this—Lord or no Lord! (Aloud, with dignity.) I—ha—hum—don't think that's quite the way to speak of them, Sir—my Lord, I suppose I ought to say!
Lord Strath. Oh, I expect a most interesting evening, I assure you.
Mr. Tid. Well, I—I daresay you'll have no cause to complain, so far as that goes, Lord—er—Strath—you'll excuse me, but I haven't quite got accustomed to that title of yours.
Lord Strath. (smiling). Not surprised at that—feel much the same myself.
Mr. Tid. Ha—well, to tell you the honest truth, I should have been just as pleased if you had come here without any handle of that sort to your name.
Lord Strath. Quite unnecessary to tell me so—and, you see, I couldn't very well help myself.
Mr. Tid. (to himself). Blankley sends 'em all out with titles—then his is bogus! (Aloud.) Oh, I don't blame you, if it's the rule; only—(irritably)—well, it makes me feel so devilish awkward, you know!
Lord Strath. Extremely sorry—don't know why it should. (To himself.) Queer little chap my host. Don't look the Egyptologist exactly. And where does he keep all his things? Downstairs, I suppose. (He turns, and recognises Miss Seaton.) Marjory Seaton—here! and I've been trying to hear something of her ever since I came back from Gîzeh—this is luck! (To her.) How do you do, Miss Seaton? No idea we should meet like this!
"I look upon him simply as a human being."
Miss Seaton (in a low constrained voice). Nor I, Mr. Claymore. [Mr. Tidmarsh catches his Wife's eye, and crosses to her.
Mrs. Tid. (sotto voce). Montague, isn't it time you introduced me to this Lord Whatever-it-is? As the person of highest rank here, he certainly ought to take me in!
Mr. Tid. He's done it, Maria. He's no more a Lord than I am. Miss Seaton knows him—I just heard her call him "Mr. Clayton," or some name like that!
Mrs. Tid. (aghast.) So this is the sort of person you would go and engage! He'll be found out, Montague, I can see Uncle edging up towards him already. And anyhow, you know what his opinions are. A pretty scrape you've got us into! Don't stand gaping—bring the man up to me this minute—I must give him a hint to be careful. (Lord S. is led up and presented.) Sit down here, please, in this corner, Lord—(with a vicious emphasis)—Strath-Blankley. (Lord. S. obeys in mild amazement.) Really, my husband and I were hardly prepared for so aristocratic a guest—we are such plain humdrum people that a title—a real title like your lordship's—ahoo!—(with an acid titter)—is, well—rather overwhelming. I only hope you will be able to—er—sustain it, or otherwise——
Lord Strath. (lifting his eyebrows.) Am I to understand that you did not expect me, after all? Because, if so,—I——
Mrs. Tid. Oh, yes, we expected you, and of course, you will be treated exactly the same as everybody else—except—I don't know if my husband warned you about not touching the champagne? No? Oh, well, you will drink claret please, not champagne. I daresay you prefer it.
Lord Strath. Thank you, I should indeed—if you have any misgivings about your champagne.
Mrs. Tid. We must draw some distinction between you and our regular guests, as I'm sure you'll understand.
Lord Strath. (to himself.) Poor devils—if they only knew! But what an unspeakable snob this woman is! I'd give something to get out of this house—if it wasn't for Marjory. I must have a word with her before dinner—strikes me she's put out with me about something or other.
Mrs. Gilwattle (to her Husband). Did you ever see anything like the way Maria's talking to that young nobleman, Gabriel? as easy and composed as if she'd kept such company all her life—it's a wonder how she can do it!
Uncle Gab. Look at the finishing she's had! And after all, he's flesh and blood like ourselves. She might introduce you and me to him, though—it looks as if she was ashamed of her own relations. I shall go up and introduce myself in a minute, and do what I can to make the young fellow feel himself at home. (Intercepting Lord S. in the act of moving towards Miss Seaton.) Excuse me, my Lord, but, as the uncle of our worthy host and hostess, I should like the honour of shaking you by the hand. (He shakes hands.) My name's Gilwattle, my Lord, and I ought to tell you before I go any further that I've no superstitious reverence for rank. Whether a man's a lord or a linen-draper, is exactly the same to me—I look upon him dimply as a human being.
Lord Strath. Quite so? he—ah—generally is, isn't he?
Uncle Gab. Very handsome of your Lordship to admit it, I'm sure—but what I mean to say is, I regard any friend of my niece and nephew's as a friend of mine—be he a Duke or be he a Dustman.
Lord Strath. Unhappily for me, I'm neither a Duke nor a Dustman, and—er—will you kindly excuse me? (To himself as he passes on.) That old gentleman makes me quite ill. Ah, Marjory at last! (To Miss Seaton.) You've scarcely spoken a word to me yet! I hoped somehow you'd look a little pleased to see me—after all this time!
Miss Seaton. Pleased? I can hardly be that under the circumstances, Mr. Claymore!
Lord Strath. Well, I only thought—we used to be such friends once. You seem so changed!
Miss Seaton. I am not the only one who is changed, I think. You seem to have changed everything—even your name. What ought I to call you, by the way, I didn't catch it exactly. "Lord Somebody," wasn't it?
Lord Strath. Never mind the confounded name, I have heard quite enough of it already! It's not my fault if I'm what I am. I never wanted to be Strathsporran!
Miss Seaton. Then you really are Lord Strathsporran! Oh, Douglas, how could you?
Lord Strath. I didn't. It was all that accident to my poor uncle and cousin. And I'm about the poorest Peer in Scotland; if that's any excuse for me!
Miss Seaton. How can it be any excuse for your coming here? Have you no pride, Douglas!
Lord Strath. My goodness, what is there to be proud about? Why shouldn't I dine with anybody, provided——?
Miss Seaton. Please don't excuse yourself—I can't bear it. You know it is unworthy of you to be here!
Lord Strath. I don't indeed. I came here simply as a——
Miss Seaton. Don't trouble to tell me—I know everything. And—and you ought to have died rather than descend to this!
Lord Strath. Ought I? Died, eh? That never occurred to me; and, after all, Marjory, you're here! What's wrong? What have I let myself in for?
Miss Seaton (bitterly). What have you let yourself out for, you mean, don't you?
Lord Strath. (mystified). I don't know! I believe my man let me out; and, anyway, what does it matter now I've come? There's dinner announced. Marjory, before we're separated, just tell me what on earth I've done to deserve this sort of thing!
Miss Seaton (with a little gesture of despair). Is it possible you want to be told how horribly you have disappointed me!
[The couples are forming to go down.
Lord Strath. (stiffly). I can only say the disappointment is mutual!
[He moves away, and awaits his hostess's directions.
Little Gwennie (stealing up to her Governess). Oh, Miss Seaton, haven't I been good? I've kept quite quiet in a corner, and I haven't said a single word to anybody ever since he came. But what nice Gentlemen Blankley does send, doesn't he?
Mrs. Tid. (on Uncle Gabriel's arm). Oh, I quite forgot you, Lord—ah—Strathporridge. As you and Miss Seaton seem to be already acquainted, perhaps you will have the goodness to take her down? You will sit on my left—on the fireplace side—and—(in a whisper)—the less you say the better!
Lord Strath. I am quite of your opinion. (To himself.) Can't make my hostess out, for the life of me—or Marjory either, if it comes to that! This is going to be a lively dinner-party, I can see!
[He gives his arm to Miss Seaton, who accepts it without looking at him; they go downstairs in constrained silence.
(End of Scene IV.)
QUEER QUERIES.—City Improvements.—How much longer are we to wait for the widening of the whole of Cheapside, the removal of the Post-Office Buildings to a more convenient site, and the total and unconditional sweeping away of Paternoster Row and the south side of Newgate Street? These slight alterations are imperatively required. They will only cost about ten millions, and what are ten millions to the Corporation? As I purchased the five square yards on which my little tobacco-shop is built in confident expectation of being bought out at a high figure, I consider that any further delay in the matter involves something like a breach of public faith. Why should not the Government help? They have lots of money, and I haven't.—Disinterested.
"Facts and Figures."—The business of the Labour Commissioner has to be very delicately managed. There must be a good deal of "give and take" in the work. However much "taking" there may be, there is sure to be plenty of Giffen.
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
There is something fascinating about the title of Mr. McCullagh Torrens' book, published in one handsome volume, by Bentley. There should be a good deal in Twenty Years in Parliament, more so when the epoch covers recollections of Palmerston in his green old age, Mr. Gladstone in his prime, Bright in his political prize-fighting trim, Cobden, Tom Duncan, Monckton Milnes, John Stuart Mill, Isaac Butt, and a host of other ghosts that have flitted off the scene. My Baronite turned to the book with gusto, read it through with patience, and left it with disappointment. Mr. Torrens knew all these men personally; in fact, he was indispensable to them. One marvels to find, from hints dropped and assertions boldly made, how much they were severally indebted to him for counsel and inspiration through the twenty years the narrative vaguely covers. The figures of the men named loom large in history; but they were all stuffed. The wires were pulled by plain unappreciated McCullagh Torrens. The weight of the responsibility has had the effect of somewhat muddling the narrative, and, from time to time, the diligent reader does not know exactly where he is. He begins with some episode in which Dizzy, with arm affectionately linked with that of McCullagh Torrens, is walking along Pall Mall, when a passing Bishop obsequiously takes off his hat and bows. McCullagh modestly says this obeisance was paid to Dizzy, but we know very well it was to McCullagh. Then, before we know where we are, we are in the middle of an account of the Bulgarian atrocities, the Russo-Turkish war, what Count Beust said to McCullagh, and how, in debate on the Vote of Six Millions, "a Right Hon. friend who sat next to me urged me to add a few words to what had been better said by others in this sense." Better said! Oh, McCullagh! Oh, Torrens! There is an ancient story of an old gentleman who had a treasured anecdote connected with the going off of a gun. When he could not drag it in otherwise, he was wont to furtively lift his foot and kick the table. "Hallo, what's that?" he cried. "Sounds like a gun; that reminds me"—and then the story. Thus Mr. Torrens drags in successive Parliamentary episodes through twenty years—the Disestablishment of the Church, the Charity Commission, State Aid to Emigrants, School Board for London, Extradition, Artisans' Dwellings; gives a not very clear summary of events leading up to each, and then treats the entranced reader to the heads of the speech he delivered. The book would have been more accurately entitled had it been called Twenty Years of McCullagh Torrens, and old Members of the House of Commons will agree that this is a little too much.
Baron de Book-Worms & Co.
The Three.
Some hold it a terrible fault of omission
That Parsons sit not on the Poor-Law Commission.
Alas! Hope would smile, but she finds it a rarity
For "Faith" not to hamper the freedom of Charity.
The world will look bright when we find in high places
A perfect accord 'twixt the Three Christian Graces!
The First Bal Masqué of the Season.—Big success. Greater crowd there than when these entertainments came to an end at the beginning of last year. All sorts of disguises were permitted, but it is said that two viveurs who came late, disguised in liquor, were denied entrance. The Snow Man found it very hot, and melted. Prizes were to be given away. But there was one prize, an elegant lady, closely masked and hooded, whose identity remained a puzzle to everybody. At last "she gave herself away." The happy recipient congratulated himself on winning the prize.
Next, Please!—Suggested subject for the next Newspaper Controversy:—"Is Robert Buchanan played out?"
"Rent Reductions" can generally be satisfactorily made pro tem. with a needle and thread.
"THE PLAY'S THE THING!"
"Could I Have a Fortnight's Leave, Sir?" "What for, Pray?" "Urgent Private Theatricals!"
THE FISHERMAN AND THE GENIUS.
(Fragmentary and Unfinished Extracts from the Arabian Nights, Up to Date.)
"Sir," said Sheeverready, "how pleasant soever these stories may be that I have told your Majesty hitherto, they do not come near that of the Fisherman and the Genius."
There was an ancient, but hale and opulent Fisherman, who had fished with much success for many a day in troubled waters. This practice of his involved him, of course, in extremely arduous labours, but resulted, generally, in securing him a fair share of hard-earned spoil, to the great envy of other fishermen of less hardihood and enterprise. He imposed it upon himself, however, as a law, not to cast his nets save during a certain season—or session, as he called it—which usually arrived but once a year.
His fortune, for some fishing seasons past, had been of a variable, and not too satisfactory sort. It is not encouraging, after casting one's nets during a prolonged spell of rough weather, and confidently anticipating a good draught of fish, to perceive that, instead of fish, there is nothing in one's net save such unsought spoil as the carcase of an Egyptian ass, a basket-full of gravel and slime of no substantial utility, or quantities of stones and mud, fit for nothing but for use as missiles among quarrelsome boys.
"O Fortune," cried he; "be not so persistently perverse, nor persecute an ancient fisherman who groweth a-weary of tumultuous billows, turbid floods, broken and filth-obstructed nets, and unprofitable hauls!"
Now, behold, it was told to this Fisherman by a certain Grand Old Voice, vague but sonorous, and voluble exceedingly, that if he would only make a complete change in his nets, and in the fashion of his fishing, miraculous draughts would become as common as minnows in a brook. This Voice visited our Fisherman often in his visions. And, behold, the Fisherman essayed the schemes suggested by the Voice. Not at first, it must be admitted, with supreme success, or entire satisfaction to the Fisherman himself. The Voice, however, attributed this qualified fortune to the Fisherman's lack of perfect trust, and of entire reform in his fashion of fishing. "Behold," cried the Voice, vibrating vehemently, "you have allowed yourself to be diverted by the sinister councils of antiquated obscurantists from implicit faith in my programmes and prescriptions!"
"And what, in brief and plain language, are these latter?" inquired the anxious but puzzled Fisherman.
"Nay," answered the Voice, sardonically; "that were to inquire too nicely. But place your fortunes absolutely in my charge; follow my lead with unquestioning loyalty, and verily you shall see great results."
The Fisherman, much impressed with these assurances, cast his nets once more in the new fashion; and when he thought it was time, he drew them in as formerly, with great difficulty. But, instead of fish, found nothing in them but a vessel of brass, which, by the weight, seemed to be full of something; and he observed that it was shut up with singular tightness, and sealed up with a thick coating of official-looking wax. And the Seal was Green, green as the abounding grass, or the scarce four-leaved shamrock of that amazing Isle of Emeralds, which some deem as much matter of myth as Sindbad's Valley of Diamonds.
The Fisherman examined the vessel on all sides, and shook it to see if what was in it made any noise, but heard nothing. This circumstance, with the impression of the seal upon the cover (which seemed to represent two Hearts linked in Union by some mystic abracadabra of unknown words) made him think there was something precious—or at least peculiar—in it. To try this, he opened it. He presently turned the mouth downward, but nothing came out, which surprised him extremely. He set it before him, and while he looked upon it attentively, there arose from it a very thick smoke, which obliged him to retire two or three paces from it.
The smoke ascended to the clouds, and, extending itself along the sea and upon the shore, formed a great mist, which we may well imagine did mightily astonish the Fisherman. When the smoke was all out of the vessel, it slowly took shape, and became a solid-seeming body, of which there was formed a Genius twice as high and broad as any giant with which the Fisherman had been aforetime familiar. At the sight of a monster of such unsizeable bulk, and from which issued, in as yet unintelligible accents, a Voice which seemed strangely familiar to his ears, the Fisherman——Here Sheeverready perceiving day, broke off her story—for the time.
THE FISHERMAN AND THE GENIUS.
(Vide "Arabian Nights.")
VERY CONSIDERATE.
Mr. Phunkie. "Deaw me!—new Rails, I declare! Now if there is a Thing which is annoying to the Agriculturist, in the present state of Depression, it is for People to go recklessly smashing Things of that sort. I shall certainly put myself to the inconvenience of Going Round—ahem!—as an Example!"